


Muerta Pequena

by cincoflex



Series: Candy Shop [3]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, M/M, Porn Musical, What doesn't Grissom know, snuff film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 00:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18063035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Mr. Peppermint and Miss Chocolate get into the naughty movie business, with a little help from their friends.





	1. Chapter 1

The smell of cotton candy competed with that of popcorn, and the milling crowds chattered. Mouse ears were evident everywhere, and the brassy sounds of a distant band playing “It’s a Small World” echoed out. At a wrought iron table near Home Town U.S.A., a family of three sat under the shade of a striped awning.

“Mom, I have to go to the bathroom,” the young girl whispered. Her mother looked at her, and then shot an anxious look at the man next to her. He gave an indifferent shrug back.

“So take her to the can already. I’ve got us a table here for the parade; just don’t take TOO long. If I have to come and find you . . .” he left his threat unspoken but lingering in the air, taking some of the joy out of the Happiest Place on Earth.

Nodding, the mother took her daughter’s hand and together they slipped off through the crowds, towards Adventure Land, and the nearest facility. The mother herded her daughter closely, and looked over her shoulder a few times. Her daughter tightened her grip on her mother’s hand and kept quiet—a habit cultivated over the last four years, and occasionally reinforced by bruises for both of them.

They reached the ladies room and stepped inside; it was empty, and the girl looked around fearfully. “Mom?”

“It’s okay Nina,” her mother soothed. At that moment, the door to the janitor’s closet at the far end of the long washroom opened, and a tall brunette woman in a Magic Kingdom janitor’s uniform stepped out. She looked at them and spoke softly.

“Claire Podansky? Nina?”

“Yes?” the woman’s voice quavered, caught between fear and hope. The janitor gave a little nod, and moved past them to lock the door they’d come through.

“I’ve been sent by your mother, Harriet, and your brother Dave to escort the two of you out of here. Are you ready?”

Mrs. Podansky bit her lips and nodded; slowly at first, then with more emphatic energy. Confused, her daughter’s nostrils flared and she shot panicked glances back at the door.

“But what about Dad?” she whimpered. The custodian squatted for a moment to see eye to eye with the nine-year-old. She spoke softly, her husky voice low.

“Nina, my name is Sara, and I know a lot about you. Your grandma told me how brave you are. About how you were SO brave you told her the truth.”

The girl’s eyes widened and she blinked, but Sara spoke on, smiling gently.

“All three of us know the truth, and it’s that your dad is not well. He hurts you and your mom, a lot. He needs help but before he can get that, you and your mom need to be safe. Right?”

The girl nodded. Sara spoke again. “Your Grandma and uncle want you and your mom to come home with them for a while.”

Nina looked from Sara to her mother, a flash of fearful hope on her face. Her mother nodded back at her. “Yes. We’re going to stay with Uncle Dave and Grandma while Dad . . . gets help.”

“But he’ll yell—" came her miserable whisper. “And then he’ll hit us again.”

“No hon. That’s all part of your dad’s illness, and we’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen ever again.” Looking up at Mrs. Podansky, Sara flashed a quick smile. “So—are you two up for a little adventure?”

Nina looked confused, but a little more relieved. “Adventure? Like California Adventure?”

 

Ten minutes later, Ted Podansky stormed through the park, his glare heavy. He moved through the crowd, not apologizing as he impatiently pushed patrons out of his way, his thoughts on the world of hurt he had planned for his little ladies oh yes indeed when he got hold of them . . .

Passing by the photo spot where a group of tourists were snapping pictures of a costumed Winnie the Pooh and Piglet, Ted moved to the very edge of the woman’s bathroom and yelled so loudly that several people, including Piglet, flinched. “CLAIRE? NINA?”

“Yo! What is your _problem_ dude?” A girl with cornrows and sunglasses demanded as she leaned against the wall. Ted scowled at her briefly, then tried to sigh.

“Sorry, got a little worried about my family. They’ve been IN there a while.”

“Whatchu mean? This bathroom’s closed.” The girl pointed to the sign on the outside of the door. The laminated card had a sad looking Minnie Mouse on it, directing traffic to New Orleans Square.

Ted squinted. “Are you sure?”

“Dude, like yeah. They probl’y went over to the one by Pirates, you’all know what I’m sayin?”

“So this john’s been closed all this time?”

The girl in cornrows shrugged, eyeing Ted cautiously. “I guess.”

He broke into soft cursing; the girl gave him a disgusted look and moved off, fishing for her cell phone. Ted glared at the sign, then shoved one meaty palm against the door, hard.

It made a loud slamming noise and people passing by paused momentarily to look at Ted. He glared back at them, his teeth grinding as the implications of his situation grew.

That bitch. They had to be somewhere in the damned park, probably hiding out. Well fat chance of them getting ANYWHERE—he had the tickets, all the money, the driver’s licenses, the credit cards, the motel and car keys. There was no way, no Fuckin-- Ted paused for a moment, and then the wave of rage rose up so red and hot within him that he could FEEL his pulse hammering now.

MotherFucking shit. Harriet. Harriet had to be around here somewhere! Ted twitched and looked around, eyeing the crowds moving along the thoroughfare into Adventure Land, trying to see if he could spot anyone vaguely familiar, but it was impossible to get a focus on anyone. Too many tourists, too many carts and characters and cameras around. Growling, he kicked at a trash can.

“Sir—" Came the soft chide of a tall man. He wore a Stetson, aviator sunglasses, a crisp white shirt and a badge that read _Phillip, Park Security_.

Ted looked up and him and suddenly smiled. “Thank God you’re here. My wife and daughter are missing—I’m pretty damned sure they’ve been kidnapped—"

“Sir, may I have your name?”

“Ted. Ted Podansky," he volunteered impatiently, still looking around. The man with the badge unclipped his walkie-talkie and spoke into it too softly for Ted to hear, then he stepped closer.

“Mr. Podansky, if you’ll come with me we can get this all sorted out." his tone was flat, and unsoothing; suspiciously Ted glared at him, but the man gestured towards an unmarked door along the cut-through between Adventure Land and Frontier Land adding in a lower voice, “It’s this way to the Security Office."

Ted Podansky reluctantly followed the officer through the door and through it, down a flight of metal stairs. The underground corridor was cement, and huge, wide enough for golf carts to travel along. “Jesus.”

“This way," came the rumble.

Ted Podansky hesitated. “Where the hell are we going?”

“Main office, Security. It’s under the Home Town U.S.A. bank,” came the calm reply. “Quicker than pushing through the crowds.”

That made sense, and seeing no alternative, Ted began walking alongside the officer down the corridor. “My wife—her name is Claire, and my daughter’s Nina—they were supposed to be back from the bathroom twenty minutes ago, but when they didn’t show I went to find them. This park is too damned big, you know? I didn’t really want to come here, but I won the tickets at work and figured what the hell, it was all paid for . . ." he stopped speaking, a new wave of rage washing over him as a new realization hit.

The tickets.

Fucking setup. It HAD to be.

The officer looked at him curiously, and Ted shook his head, forcing himself to calm down. They reached a pair of glass doors with the words “Park Security Alpha Station” etched on it. Beyond the glass were desks, counters, and holding cells. Ted followed the man through and the sounds of phones, computers and conversations made a pleasant background hum. The officer took him to an office off to the left and motioned to a chair in front of a desk.

Reluctantly he sat. Somewhere overhead, his two little ladies were getting away, helped on by that bitch Harriet and he had to make fucking NICE down here . . .

“My wife and little girl are MISSING,” he growled impatiently. “Don’t you think you ought to be DOING something? Don’t you need a description of them?”

The officer sat down and opened a file. He held up a black and white photo, that showed a little girl’s bare back, the welts showing up darkly against her pale skin. The watermark in the left corner read Fountain Valley Hospital. He pushed it across the desk towards Ted.

Another followed of a woman’s bare torso, with huge bruises blooming like a Rorschach across her ribcage and stomach. The same watermark was on this one, along with a date only a few months prior.

“I think we’ve got plenty of photos of them, Mr. Podansky,” came the flat, hard reply.

***

Sara climbed out of the taxi and paid the driver, then took a deep relaxing breath as she looked down towards Grace Marina. Her flight out of Anaheim had been on time, and in the warm afternoon sun, Lake Mead looked wonderful. She wondered if she had time to unmoor the Bohemian and try for a quick shakedown cruise before checking in at the Shop.

It had gone well. Personally Sara loved these particular types of missions, and felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the thought of Claire and Nina out of the reach of Ted. It had been a tense moment to have him pass by so closely and never see his wife and child standing right there . . . 

\--and of course Nina had been thrilled to be Piglet.

Sara had escorted the two of them, mother and daughter, through the park, stopping with them to let tourists take photos and ask shyly for autographs. When they’d reached the last kiosk by the main gates Sara had herded them in to the back room there and helped them out of their costumes. Harriet and Dave had been waiting, and oh the reunion had nearly made her cry. 

Sometimes working for the Shop had benefits that paid the soul, Sara decided.

Harriet Callen had taken her children and granddaughter out to a waiting RV and assured Sara that they’d be traveling for at least a month, to their new home.

“Thank you, Miss. I don’t know your real name but I know your real heart and I thank you and your organization for helping my family out of their nightmare!” the old woman had told her forthrightly.

Sara grinned. Given the amount of evidence against Ted Podansky in the hands of the Anaheim police—affidavits, photos, medical records—she doubted that he’d be free to pursue them for quite a while, even if he did have any idea where Claire and Nina had gone. 

Best of all had been Nina’s little hand squeeze to her, and her whisper of thanks; that made up for a lot of things.

Suitcase in hand, Sara made her way down the dock towards her yacht, feeling a glow in her stomach. Life was good, she decided. She’d pulled off this mission on her own, and now it was time to consider another major step. As she deactivated the motion detector with her remote and climbed onto the Bohemian, Sara thought long and hard about a car.

Mr. Peppermint was right—she definitely needed transportation, and the marina was far enough out of Las Vegas that it cost her extra for every taxi trip. For a while she’d been tempted to get a motorcycle; the speed appealed to her, as did the compactness, but common sense spoke up and reminded her of all the luggage and props she needed to haul on occasion. As she was unlocking the doors, Sara noticed the little note taped to one of them. She frowned.

The motion detector hadn’t gone off, and yet here was a note . . . addressed to her, and under that, a small drawing of a Hershey’s kiss.

Sara blushed, the heat rising up from her neck and along her face even as she grinned. It had to be him; only Mr. Peppermint would have the skill and puckish sense of humor to take on the challenge of her motion detector just to leave her a note—and one with a flirtatious drawing as well. She pulled it from the door and flipped it open, scanning the few words there.

_Congratulations on your latest; there is no greater satisfaction than to right a longstanding wrong. All confectioners are invited to tea at four._

No signature, but a little drawing of a red and white candy ended the note, along with a question in smaller cursive.

_Have you been keeping count?_

Seeing it, Sara blushed all over again, and tucked the paper into her pocket as she opened the door and climbed down the stairs to the cabin. She flicked open the curtains and set her suitcase down, sighing shyly.

Of course she’d kept count. Sara hadn’t meant to—the arrangement had been just a whim on both their parts during the Harrington con—but the sweet secret of it had gotten under her skin. The last kiss she’d shared with Mr. Peppermint had been nearly nine days ago, and not a morning since then had gone by that she hadn’t looked at herself in a bathroom mirror and thought of it.

Nine kisses owed, including today’s. 

Sara looked at her answering machine, noted the blinking lights and pressed the play button, letting the messages sound out while she unpacked her suitcase. 

“Hello Ms. Sidle, this is Melanie Grace, your landlord. I need you to stop by the dock office when you get in from your trip and pick up your safety deposit key and registration. I should be in until four this afternoon. Glad to have you back, bye.”

Sara nodded and added that to her mental To Do list.

“Ms. Sidle, this is Clementine St. Croix, secretary for Doctor Marazek with a reminder that your next therapy session is tomorrow at ten o’clock. Please call me if you are unable to make the appointment, thank you.”

Sara bit her lips, and added that as well. Progress. She WAS making progress . . . 

“Hello, this message is for Ms. Sara Sidle. Are you suffering from keel rot? Do you have more barnacles than ballast on your boat’s backside? We here at Sandy Bottom Boat Sanders are having a special this week. Let us get our hands on your bottom, and we’ll give you a hull of a deal!”came the teasing chortle of Jelly Bean’s voice. Sara laughed out loud, and came back out into the main cabin to listen to the rest of the message.

“Seriously, Sara, just checkin’ to see if you’re around. I’m going to be out of town for a few days, and wanted to know if you’d like anything from Des Moines. Not that there’s really anything IN Des Moines besides corn and the central offices for Wells Fargo . . . maybe I’ll bring you a John Deere hat. See you!"

The answering machine announced that that was the final message, and Sara flicked it off. She felt a little sad not to have heard Mr. Peppermint’s voice, but remembering the note in her pocket, she smiled, and checked her watch, realizing she had just enough time for a shower before tea.

* * * 

“You’re _pathetic_ , Connie. Tell me why I should keep doing business with you, huh?” came Bruce Eiger’s disgusted rumble over the phone line. “Honest to Christ, you’re very quickly outliving your usefulness to me, you know that?”

“I have the report on the Richmond shooting,” Ecklie sighed. He paced the living room, nearly barking his shin on the extra low coffee table, and turned away, trying not to wince. Across the room, Melanie hid her grin and went back to knitting.

“Okay, I take back what I said—for the moment,” Bruce warned. “What’s the story? Miller got any leads she shouldn’t have?”

“No matches in Ballistics, no eyewitnesses or hard evidence from the scene. According to the trajectory, the shots were fired down into the restaurant from the fifth story, most likely from behind one of the big potted palms sup there. Right now they’ve got nothing, but given the number of hard timers in Portia’s past, I’d say it was somebody from O’Neil’s circle.”

“Ha! So the cops are pissing in the wind on this one. Good. I might keep you on after all, Connie boy. Give my love to the little lady, huh?” With a roar at his own humor, Bruce hung up, and Ecklie stared at the phone for a moment. Then, in one surprisingly fluid movement, he snapped it shut and threw it across the room; it hit a framed picture of the Eiffel Tower, knocking it off the wall.

“Conrad—" came the warning rumble, a low, sweet sound. He sighed and glanced over at Melanie, then moved towards her, leaning down.

“I can’t help it. Bruce Eiger is the boil on the ass of Las Vegas, Mel. I can deal with just about any other scum out there, but Eiger’s a basket case all his own.”

Melanie Grace put down her knitting and looked up at Ecklie, her smile soft. Carefully she patted his face, then leaned up and kissed him gently. “I know, baby, I know. In the meantime, we’ve got to go find you a car.”

Ecklie managed a small, twisted smile. “You sure you want to be seen with me?”

She laughed. “We do make a pair, don’t we? Well I say if anyone has a problem with it, I’ll . . . head butt them in the balls.”

Ecklie laughed, and kissed her once more, his normally sardonic expression softening slightly. “Jesus, you WOULD, too. All right, we’ll go see if we can pick up a deal at Harrington’s.”

Melanie nodded and climbed down off the couch; Ecklie watched her go, feeling the twist of love and desire flicker through him once more at the sight of her dark hair and rounded hips. For all of her four feet three inches, Mel was pure woman, and certainly never had a problem in showing him exactly why the two-foot difference between them didn’t matter.

He’d met her on the set of a skin flick Bruce had been backing; she was there to keep the books—lucrative as porn was it still needed to be balanced—and they’d hit it off from the first day. Mel didn’t care that he was Bruce’s flunkie, working a minimal day job as a janitor around the police lab. She didn’t care about the bookie rounds, or the gun running, or even the required snitch work.

Conrad Ecklie couldn’t figure out exactly WHY Mel loved him; he was nobody’s idea of handsome, and while he managed to make a living he wasn’t really getting ahead. Before, money hadn’t really mattered, but now—

He slowly went over to where the fallen phone was and picked it up, wondering if he still had Portia Richmond’s number.

* * * 

The table was set for five, Grissom noted as he walked into the garden. The teapot was the cheery ceramic one from the Thirties, decorated with lollipops and candy designs; that made him pause. Miss Lollipop only brought that particular pot out when she needed to rally the troops; therefore the mission she was about to propose must be exceptionally distasteful or difficult.

Grissom was proud of being able to spot that tiny tell—it wasn’t easy to see the little signs of Miss Lollipop’s human side sometimes. He looked around the garden to see if anyone else—a specific someone in fact—had arrived yet. 

Miss Lollipop and Licorice were standing near the rose beds sharing a joke of some sort. Jaw Breaker was talking on his cell phone to someone as he wandered over the manicured lawn, his attention focused on his conversation. 

Neither Jelly Bean nor—

“Hi,” came a low husky purr from behind him. Grissom swung around, hoping he didn’t look overly anxious. Miss Chocolate was there, fresh and cool in a pale pink sleeveless turtleneck and green slacks. Around her neck she wore a chunky stone pendant of malachite set in silver, and the striped shades of green and black looked striking.

He smiled at her; risking a full one before toning it down and shifting slightly to stand in profile to her. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks. Got your note," she replied in a low voice. The others had spotted them and where coming across the lawn towards the table now. Miss Chocolate murmured playfully, “Eight.”

“You miscounted.” Grissom corrected her, and then Miss Lollipop was upon them, her gaze sweeping over them keenly. 

“Welcome back. Come, sit," gracefully she moved to the seat closest to the teapot; Jaw Breaker pulled her chair out for her. Once she was settled, the others moved to various spots around the spotless linen-covered table. Miss Lollipop smiled at them all.

“Thank you all for coming. Normally I wouldn’t ask the two of you to consider another mission so soon after the last major one," Grissom nodded for himself and Miss Chocolate; Miss Lollipop continued, “—but a case and an opportunity have converged today and I thought I’d present it to you. Should we decide not to involve ourselves, the evidence will be handed over to the local authorities in due course. However . . ." she paused.

“It’s serious,” Licorice finished for her. She nodded. Jaw Breaker pursed his mouth.

“Life, limb or property?” came his thoughtful question. 

Miss Lollipop sighed. “Life. Murder to be precise. Tea?”

Receiving nods, Miss Lollipop carefully accepted each cup handed to her and poured the steaming fragrant tea. The scent of ginger floated around them, and when they were all settled, Miss Lollipop spoke again. “I’ve been given a piece of evidence of a murder. Since it comes from a patient of mine, I’m loathe to involve the local authorities yet, especially in light of my patient’s particular station in life. However, I believe we have the resources here to investigate whether or not this evidence is real, and if it is, to make sure the police have enough to open a full investigation.”

“Pardon me, but you said it was murder?” Jaw Breaker asked politely, adding a few sugar cubes to his tea. Miss Lollipop nodded.

“Yes. A snuff film, and from what Bubble Gum and Gum Drop can tell me so far, it seems to be genuine—the poor victim was in fact strangled and disemboweled. Cookie anyone?”

The group looked at her; Miss Lollipop met their slightly appalled gazes serenely. “They’re lemon biscuits—quite tasty.” As if to prove it, she took one herself. Licorice sighed and followed suit.

“A snuff film,” Grissom repeated. He had an idea of where the evidence had come from, but merely nodded. “I assume the snuffing came at the end of . . . other things?”

“Quite astute, Mr. Peppermint. Yes, it was a pornographic film,” Miss Lollipop agreed, “and that is our one advantage here. Macy MacDonald is currently in Europe, visiting her mother. She’s given us permission to use her persona to investigate this situation if we choose to take it on. “

“Macy MacDonald? Who’s she?” Miss Chocolate asked uncertainly.

Miss Lollipop smiled. “Macy MacDonald is an acquaintance of mine who happens to be a director of adult entertainment films. A retired star, she’s made a name for herself behind the camera as well, and by great good chance, you have the same body build and height and coloring that she does. You’ll need to wear glasses and cap your teeth, but with the right wardrobe, you would easily pass for Ms. MacDonald, Miss Chocolate.”

Grissom watched the woman next to him grin, dazzlingly. “I’ve always wanted to direct,” she commented, making both Jaw Breaker and Licorice grin.

“Adult films . . ." Jaw Breaker mused uncertainly. Grissom understood his trepidation and looked to Miss Lollipop.

“Since none of us plan to be stars, how else will we be going in?”

It was an unfortunate choice of words; Licorice coughed over his tea and Miss Chocolate snickered. Miss Lollipop kept her serene smile. “Miss MacDonald will have her favorite cameraman, Laird Donovan, and because she’s got a new production she’s planning, she needs a few set builders and electricians as well. But this is all contingent on the four of you agreeing to take the mission. I don’t want to make light of the danger here, and I don’t want to commit to this without consensus.”

The confectioners looked around the table at each other for a long moment, then Grissom nodded for the group. “We’ll do it.”

“Very good,” Miss Lollipop smiled, “It should prove to be . . . educational.”

“I’m not sure it will be educational, but it should be entertaining,” Jaw Breaker announced, sipping his tea. Miss Lollipop smiled.

“Well, considering your script is for a gay porn musical . . ." she replied.

Grissom felt his eyes widen; he noted that Jaw Breaker had fumbled with his tea cup and Licorice was starting to scowl. Only Miss Chocolate seemed unfazed by this latest revelation.

“I can’t wait for auditions,” she purred.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam Vartann winced, and tried to lift the barbell again. The tiny five pounder still made his arm ache, and he wanted to drop it, but the knowledge that Reggie Owens was watching him stopped that wish cold. He looked over at her, and tried to make his expression pleading.

She frowned prettily, tucking a pencil behind her ear. “You need to keep going, Sam. Ten more reps at the very least, according to your physical therapist.”

“Mrs. Makolos is a slave driver,” he grumbled, pulling the barbell up again in a smooth lift. He didn’t miss the way Reggie watched his bicep flex though, and that made him grin. “You keeping tabs on me?”

“Someone has to,” she responded softly, shifting her chair at the table. The two of them were in Portia Richmond’s gym; a compact room downstairs in the mansion, tucked between the kitchen and the solarium. Before, Portia used it for her morning Yoga, and little else; currently it had been converted into a physical therapy room for Sam Vartann.

Just then a creak from the doorway made both Sam and Reggie look up; the tall form of the new bodyguard, Rafe, filled the frame. He looked at them, and spoke softly, his voice a deep rumble. “I’m taking Mrs. Richmond out to the Forum, and she’s requested your company, Miss Owens. We leave in five minutes.”

Reggie nodded, and Rafe moved away silently. When they were along again, she caught Sam’s expression of frustration, and sighed. “It’s just temporary, Sam—you know Portia’s keeping _you_ , not him.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—it’s not that, Reg, it’s him; Rafe. I feel like I know him from somewhere, but I can’t put my damned finger on it. Just when I think I’ve got the connection, it disappears again,” Sam muttered in frustration. He looked up at Reggie, who had risen and come over to him at the weight bench. “It’s just something that _bugs_ me, that’s all.”

“Well we did the background check and the fingerprinting, and he comes up clean. I’m not very fond of him, but Portia does need the protection, and until you’re on your feet again, he’s on the job.”

As she spoke, Reggie timidly reached out and stroked Sam’s hair, brushing a strand back from his eyes. He smiled up at her, amused at how easily she blushed, and how nice her fingers felt.

“Well as long as you don’t have _too_ good a time with him—"

“No way—I like you MUCH better . . ." Reggie trailed off, the pink on her cheeks deepening. Sam felt the heat radiating off her, and impulsively caught her hand with his free one, thinking hard of a distraction.

“Thanks. Say, if you’re anywhere near a pet place, could you pick up a rawhide chew for Humph? He’s been going after the TV remote," he asked gently, knowing what a complete sucker Reggie had become for the little French Bulldog in the last two weeks.

“Of course!” she blurted happily, “anything for the little guy.”

“How about the big guy?” Sam teased, squeezing her fingers. “like dinner in front of the TV?”

“More Monday Night Football,” Reggie snorted. “I’ll sit with you again only if you eat all your vegetables.”

Sam gave a suspicious look. “What’s on the menu? Because if it’s cauliflower . . ."

“Green beans and corn on the cob.”

“Done deal,” he nodded, and let her fingers go after a last stroke of his thumb over her knuckles. Reggie smiled at him and headed out the door of the gym, leaving him to admire the voluptuous sway of her backside and brood once again over where he’d seen Rafe Maddox before.

 

* * * 

Sara looked into Mr. Peppermint’s eyes and wondered how he could move so quickly and silently. He wasn’t particularly lithe, but clearly he’d picked up stalking talents from Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, because one minute ago they were just entering the Wardrobe room, and the next, here they were, against the back of door of the Wardrobe room, entwined together in a warm embrace.

“Nine,” came his husky chide.

“I know—I was checking to see if YOU were keeping count,” she whispered, just as aware as he was that people were outside in the hallway.

“Of course. You’ll find I’m meticulous on certain matters,” he assured her, then hesitated. “That is . . . if the arrangement is still . . . beneficial?”

Sara felt a more concrete response was called for and proceeded to pull Mr. Peppermint’s face to hers, kissing him in a quick deep plunge. He tasted of tea and desire; she moaned, feeling herself slump against the door as he playfully nibbled along her mouth, then deepened the kiss, abruptly stealing her very breath with his intensity. Her head thumped against the door, the sound just another noise amid the slurps and little husky growls between them.

“Missed you,” Sara panted in a whisper. Mr. Peppermint gave an answering groan and moved his mouth to lightly lip her cheekbone, his breath hot in her ear.

“Missed you as well . . ."

A hard knock on the door startled them both; Mr. Peppermint reluctantly pulled away and ran a thumb over his lower lip while Sara ducked under his arm and darted across the room, flipping frantically through a rack of women’s coats. Jaw Breaker’s voice grew louder as he stepped through the door.

“Yeah well if anyone thinks I’m gonna get naked on this one they can think _again_. I’m all for stopping a murderer, but I draw the line at showing off my . . ."

“--Texas assets?” Licorice drawled. “Come on, Nick—we’re strictly behind the scenes for the case.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want to be behind ANYTHING on this one. Hey Griss, looking for something to wear?” Jaw Breaker asked, finally shifting his gaze. 

Mr. Peppermint managed a straight face. “I’m pretty sure I can dress myself,” he assured him, “Although a touch of fey might be called for.”

“Really?” Licorice questioned, grinning a little.

Mr. Peppermint nodded, shrugging. “The art of blending in is very simple. Give a suggestion of what people expect, and their imaginations will do the rest.”

“That might work with people, but not with porn,” Jaw Breaker sighed. 

Sara cleared her throat and all three men looked at her. She batted her eyes. “At least you guys have a clean slate to work from whereas I have to do a passable imitation of a woman I don’t know.”

“You’ll have a file, and photos, and since this is a new production, you won’t run into anyone out at Tia Carumba who actually knows Ms. MacDonald,” Mr. Peppermint assured her. Jaw Breaker beat her to the question.

“Tia Carumba?”

“Yes.”

“Man, I thought that place was made up! You’re telling me there’s a REAL Tia Carumba?” Jaw Breaker looked stunned, and Licorice slightly startled. Mr. Peppermint nodded, and pulled a soft green Hawaiian print shirt down, eyeing it as he spoke again.

“Tia Carumba is off of the 95 in Lincoln County, about fifteen miles from Alamo. It has an unmarked dirt road turnoff from the highway, and a manned security gate. Four seedy motor courts and motels out in the middle of nowhere now turned into little independent adult film studios on a full-time basis, complete with location sets, film processing labs and laundry services.”

“You seem to know an awful lot _about_ it,” Licorice ventured. 

Mr. Peppermint gave a bland smile. “Research is a useful thing; the better prepared one is, the more likely the mission will go well. Miss Chocolate and I will go out tomorrow and negotiate for a few sites and sets. I suggest you two take some time to study the snuff film and take notes on the background and any details that might help us figure out where it was filmed.”

“You think it was filmed at Tia Carumba?” Sara asked intently. Grissom sighed.

“Possibly. The adult film industry—the professional one anyway—is actually a pretty small community, and we have a good chance of running into someone there who knows something about it.”

Jaw Breaker looked over at Licorice and made a pained face. “Guess it would be tacky to make popcorn, huh?”

“Extremely,” Licorice shot back, looking no more enthusiastic than his partner did. He let his glance sweep over the other three people in the Wardrobe room and sighed. “But the sooner we get started, the sooner we can find something to bring to the cops. Where should we meet tomorrow?”

“My shop would be fine,” Mr. Peppermint offered. “We can look over the script too, and start putting out ads for auditions. And you may want to brush up on your basic carpentry and electronic skills as well.”

“Power tools—THAT I can do.” Jaw Breaker breathed a sigh of relief.

 

* * * 

Miss Lollipop sat across the restaurant table from her date and smiled prettily. The lovely scents of curry and lamb lingered in the air, and the atmosphere lent itself to a hint of romance. The soft wail of sitars in the background added to the mystique, as did the grilled walls and tapestries.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he directed in that gentle voice she’d come to love. This was what he did best: ask and listen. Miss Lollipop dropped her gaze and said nothing for a moment, letting the words form across her thoughts before she spoke them.

“Tell ME . . . is it right; it is fair for us to play the puppet masters? Not in the professional sense—but in people’s private lives? To move them in ways they’re not aware of just because . . . we can?”

She waited for his reply, feeling a little vulnerable. His opinion mattered a great deal to her; they’d been through a lot together and between them had built the Candy Shop from the ground up, carefully recruiting confectioners along the way.

He smiled, and reached over to pat her hand. “People don’t always know what’s best for them, Heather. Sometimes they need a nudge in the right direction; a nudge in ANY direction to get them start making choices. If they fall or get hurt, that’s a part of life, but in the end, it’s much better than sitting the status quo until old age or insanity settles in. You’re worried about Peppermint?”

“Yes,” she confessed. “It’s a risk, setting him up with Chocolate; if he ever suspects the partnership is . . . therapeutic—"

“I doubt he’s even considered that. To be honest, Gil can be amazingly blind to personal issues. No, our pairing him up with Sara has already paid off, Heather—she’s won his trust and he’s taking her under his wing without any suggestion from you.” came her companion’s soft rumble.

For a moment, Miss Lollipop considered his words, then smiled, reassured. “Yes, I HAD noticed that. I suppose the next move would be to split them up and see what they do.”

“After this next mission,” he agreed, “a little test, just to make sure our instincts about them are right. And if they are . . . then we may be looking at the beginnings of a very interesting dynamic. Shall we order?”

 

A few hours later, when Miss Lollipop and her date came out of the restaurant, Sugar Daddy watched them from across the street. He fought the low, sad pangs in his chest as he watched her kiss the cheek of the older man leaning on his aluminum crutches; saw him accept her affection with a pleased smile before a black limousine pulled up to the curb. 

The man climbed in, awkwardly, but Miss Lollipop made no move to join him. Curious now, Sugar Daddy kept watching as the limo pulled away, leaving her standing outside the restaurant. She waited until she was alone once more, the pulled out her cell phone. A few seconds later, the soft buzzing against his hip announced a call. He checked the ID and debated answering it, but in the end let the voice mail catch her message.

It was only a small consolation to see her shoulders slump slightly as she turned and walked to the parking lot of the restaurant, her steps slow. Sugar Daddy sighed and started the engine of his car, nosing it out of the parking lot and turning towards the Strip. He already knew the limo’s license would yield nothing, and that no one at the restaurant would remember much about the man on crutches other than he had been a good tipper.

Sugar Daddy turned on the radio, hoping the sounds of Sinatra would drown out the hopeless longing rising through him.

 

* * * 

The soft hum of the Tohatsu outboard engine carried over the dark water, and gliding majestically, the Boston Bohemian arrived at the dock. A few of the diners out on the deck watched as Miss Chocolate maneuvered the yacht alongside the restaurant under the bright lights at the end of the pier. She held the throttle and Grissom climbed out, towing the tie off rope with him. A decent half hitch and the bow was securely moored; Miss Chocolate shut off the engine and tossed the stern line out to him. After tying that around the piling nearest it, Grissom moved to extend a hand and help Miss Chocolate step onto the pier, feeling a swell of blended emotions rising when their fingers met.

She was . . . amazing. Cool and confident, looking striking and happy as she moved to stand next to him and smile. “You know, this is the only time I really get parallel parking right.”

Grissom shot a glance over his shoulder at the yacht. “Perfect on the first try.”

His compliment widened her grin and she looked down, embarrassed. He motioned with his chin to the restaurant and lightly touched her back, herding her forward.

“Do we have to pay a docking fee?” she asked.

Grissom shook his head. “Boats coming in are good for their image, and nobody else is tied up out there.”

The Maitre’d seated them out on the deck, at a spot overlooking the water. The heaters were on and the only light came from the tiny hurricane lamp on the table. Grissom watched Miss Chocolate settle into her cushioned wicker chair and flash him an uncertain smile. “Something on your mind?’ he asked softly.

“This is . . . a little more upscale than I expected,” Miss Chocolate blurted honestly. “I was thinking oyster bar, with a jukebox and fried mozzarella stick appetizers."

“--A sandals and shorts sort of place?” he sighed. “There are a few around, but I’ve always enjoyed coming here for a beer.”

“Alone?”

“Sometimes I have calamari with it,” Grissom told her earnestly. Miss Chocolate seemed to like that answer and shifted forward a little, touching the light on the table. For a moment she didn’t say anything, and then in a quick little rush of words--

“I don’t know what you’re expecting . . . but this may not be such a good idea.”

Grissom blinked, taken aback by the low huskiness in her voice. She continued. “I have . . . a past; things I’m not proud of, and things I’m still dealing with.”

Feeling a little hollow now, Grissom nodded, and leaned forward himself, looking at the way the lamp glow lit up the curve of her cheek. Miss Chocolate sighed; a tiny sound. “I . . . don’t drink now. By choice, if you know what I mean.”

“Step five--admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs,” Grissom murmured thoughtfully. “Yes, I know what you mean and I respect you for it.”

Miss Chocolate blinked, and her expression was both beautiful and shy in the flattering light. “You . . . understand,” came her murmur. 

Grissom nodded, and toyed with the tines on his fork, not meeting her eyes. “I understand. No beer, and probably no wine—but they’ve got a great heart of palm salad, and corn chowder.”

Miss Chocolate laughed. “Just because I’M not drinking doesn’t mean _you_ have to stop.”

“No hardship,” he insisted, his expression soft, “None. So how did your Anaheim job go?”

Miss Chocolate brightened, and spoke warmly, sharing the highlights. The waitress came over a few minutes later, and Grissom smiled at her when she gave him a familiar nod.

“Hey Mr. G. Calamari and Michelob?”

“Calamari and bottled water, thanks. And the lady will have . . . ?”

“The seafood crepes and a ginger ale, please.” Miss Chocolate murmured. When the waitress left for the kitchen, she looked at him with amusement. “On a name basis here?”

“It’s really good calamari,” he defended, “On par with Alioto’s.”

“And how would you know that?” Miss Chocolate asked, and they were off, discussing food and San Francisco in an animated conversation. Grissom found himself telling about an old case that involved the owner of the Stinking Rose when the waitress returned with their food, setting the plates down gently.

“Oh yesssss,” Miss Chocolate purred. Grissom felt himself twitch at that tone, and quickly spread his napkin over his lap for camouflage. A quick glance at his companion showed her grinning at him.

“You’re hungry too?” came her little question, full of hidden meanings. He met her gaze directly.

“Funny thing about an appetite; sometimes you don’t realize you have one until something special tempts you.”

She blushed. It was lovely to see the rosy flush along her cheeks in the candlelight, and Grissom enjoyed it. Miss Chocolate drew in a breath.

“Do you realize starting tomorrow, I’ve got to portray a bisexual ex-porn queen who’s now a fairy godmother?”

“And I get to play your neurotic gay cameraman?” Grissom nodded. “Yes. Which is why I wanted tonight to just be . . . us.”

Miss Chocolate nodded back.

Later, after they’d finished dinner and lingering over the table, after they’d taken the Styrofoam boxes back to the Bohemian and cast off, Grissom wrapped himself behind Miss Chocolate as she steered the yacht across the rippling waters of Lake Mead.

The darkness gave them both privacy and freedom; she arched her neck invitingly to his little grazing kisses along it. When they reached Grace Marina, Grissom reluctantly stepped off to tie up the Bohemian at the slip. Miss Chocolate followed him, and moved into his arms as they stood on the dark dock, locked in a loose embrace.

“Hey . . .” came her soft murmur. Grissom sighed, hearing a hint of caution in her voice. He brushed his cheek against hers and breathed in her ear.

“Yes?”

“There’s a little matter of seven kisses you owe me—“

“Eight. Your affection accounting needs work,” came his murmur as he tipped her face to his and proceeded to square the books. The first kiss was tentative and soft; the second a warm, inviting glide of lips, but the third—

The third was a reckless drive of passion, and suddenly Grissom found himself clutching Miss Chocolate hard, pulling her slender frame tightly against his own as she moaned happily, her tongue boldly sliding into his mouth; taking possession of it.

Grissom groaned. His hands slid up along her back, caressing it, memorizing the sleek contours of her shoulder blades as he gave himself up to her kiss. When she pulled back and laughed softly, he shivered. “More. Please.”

“My pleasure," she purred, and bestowed a tender little kiss along his damp upper lip. Leisurely Miss Chocolate let her lips glide along the sensitive edge of his mouth, the heat and silk of her kiss mingling with their breaths, and when her tongue lapped out along his bottom lip, Grissom couldn’t be patient any longer.

He kissed her brazenly; Grissom took his time reclaiming her mouth, sliding a lazy tongue around hers in a slick dance punctuated by nibbles. Miss Chocolate swayed against him, breathless but just as eager to follow his lead this time. Her approving growl made him laugh.

“Five down, three to go," she whispered. Grissom brushed his cheek against hers, savoring the feel of her in his arms. The sensation was arousing, and at the same time, comforting. Miss Chocolate’s grip around his waist slid lower, until her interlocked hands were resting around his hips. She made a happy sound deep in her slender throat. “Of course, we don’t have to . . . use them all up tonight.”

“Hmmm. I don’t think of it as using them up—more like savoring them, Frango.” The nickname slipped out easily; without thought. Miss Chocolate chuckled and just for that kissed him again, her hands stroking his lower back through his jacket.

“I guess that would make you Haviland then. You’re not a York.”

“I’m not thin, either,” Grissom groused, but lightly. Miss Chocolate’s hands were rubbing his hips and his anatomy was responding strongly.

“Shhhhhh . . ." Gently she pressed her mouth to his again, and Grissom kissed her deeply, losing himself to the sheer physical thrill. His entire body tingled, his senses were hyperaware of every curve of the body pressed against his. He felt restless and hungry and happy and confused all at the same time, and the only thing that made things better was to kiss her.

Abruptly Miss Chocolate pulled away and Grissom felt her tense up in his arms. “Someone’s coming.”

Annoyed that he’d been so caught up that he’d missed it, Grissom reluctantly let her go and turned, still keeping one arm around her.

Footsteps came down the dock; little light ones. Through the distant gleam of the floodlights up near the gate both of them could make out the outline of a person. A child.

“Miss Sidle?” came the woman’s voice. No child. Miss Chocolate cleared her throat and stepped forward hastily.

“Miss Grace. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to get up to the dock office earlier.”

“That’s all right. I was just about to lock up for the night when I noticed you were back. Here. You have safety deposit box seven, same as your boat slip. You’re paid up for the next three months,” Melanie Grace announced. She held up a small glittering key to Miss Chocolate. “Here you go; goodnight folks." 

They waited until Miss Grace made her way back along the dock, but the mood was broken, and both of them realized it reluctantly. Grissom closed his eyes as Miss Chocolate cupped his cheek, her thumb touching the cleft in his chin.

“Are we going to be in trouble for this?” she asked him softly. Grissom’s mouth thinned out. He carefully reached for her, and pulled her into his embrace, gently stroking her hair as Miss Chocolate rested her chin on his shoulder, hugging him back.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

Sara looked at herself in the mirror and blinked a little, then glanced down at the 8x10 photo clipped to the top of the folder and sighed. She leaned closer and adjusted the dental filler, then turned a profile to her reflection. “Hooo boy, this is going to be . . . interesting.”

 

“Yo! Are you coming out or not?” came Licorice’s voice from beyond the door. Sara winked at her reflection and took a breath for courage. She pulled open the bathroom door and sauntered out to the conference table underneath the Book Hive.

 

Stunned silence met her arrival, and she looked around the table at Jaw Breaker and Licorice, grinning at her dramatic effect. “Well boys, are we ready to make a nice manmeat movie?”

 

“Jeeeeesus!” Jaw Breaker gulped. “Sara? That IS you, right?”

 

“Yep, it’s me, sugar-ass. Whatcha think?” Sara grinned. She wore a red spaghetti strap tank top with the words _“Mama Gonna Spank You”_ in silver glitter across the front. Her faded jeans rode low enough on her hips to reveal the straps of her thong, and each slender arm held enough Navajo silver and turquoise bracelets to reach nearly to her elbows. The silver hoop earrings dangling from each earlobe touched her shoulders, and her hair had fuchsia streaks in it now.

 

The frosted silver eye shadow made Sara’s dark eyes brighter and more dramatic, going well with her fuchsia lipstick. On her left shoulder, she sported a tiny tattoo of a cricket, graceful, with long antenna.

 

“Holy crap . ." came Licorice’s assessment. “Girl, you are seriously hot AND scary. This is what Macy MacDonald _looks_ like?”

“No, this is pretty toned down,” Sara laughed, tossing her head. “I thought I’d be subtle on my way to Tia Carumba.” 

“Subtle, she says,” Licorice grinned, “Yeah, I guess for a porn star, that’s pretty subtle.” 

“EX-Porn Star, thank you,” she corrected him quickly. “All my best work is behind the camera nowadays.” 

“Riiiiiiigggghhht,” Jaw Breaker teased. “You know Greg’s going to be kicking himself for taking that Des Moines job if he ever gets a look at you like this.” 

“Definitely,” Licorice chimed in, grinning. 

Sara shook her head. “No. Photos. I’m dead serious about that, with an emphasis on the DEAD part--" Her threat was interrupted when Mr. Peppermint appeared at the other end of the room, clearing his throat. 

“Oh boys—let’s not argue with the lady, shall we?” 

Sara stared, along with Jaw Breaker and Licorice, and for the second time, none of them around the table could speak. Mr. Peppermint shot each of them a blasé glance, then smoothly lowered himself into his chair, lounging in it. “So?” 

“Okay, my tiny mind is freaking now,” Jaw Breaker mumbled, staring. 

Licorice shook his head and drew in a deep breath. “Wow. I think you may have outdone yourself, Grissom.” 

“Thank you.” Mr. Peppermint wore the green Hawaiian shirt he’d picked up from the Wardrobe room; it was unbuttoned to mid-chest. Over that was a khaki bush vest with pockets over jeans and slip-on Top Siders. The ensemble was fairly understated, but he’d added a single stud diamond in his left earlobe, a heavy silver chain bracelet on one wrist, and a small fuzzy soul patch under his lower lip; a bit of grey-tinted fluff that accented his cleft chin. 

Sara kept staring, and finally he cocked his head, making the gesture smooth. “Yes?” 

She lost it, and burst out in a braying laugh that echoed in the underground meeting room. Over on a side table one of the cats—Porthos—looked alarmed at the sound. He leapt away as Licorice and Jaw Breaker broke into snickers of their own. Mr. Peppermint closed his eyes and waited patiently for the hilarity to die down, and when the other three were almost back under control, he sighed. “Get it out of your systems now, because once we’re at Tia Carumba, we’re on.” He glanced down at himself. “Too much?” 

“Nah, you look pretty tasteful. Very California, on the slightly . . metro side,” Sara managed with a smirk. “The sort of guy who’d know his white wines and moisturizers.” 

His quick glance her way promised her evil retaliation, but he covered it smoothly and motioned to the dossiers on the table. “All right, let’s get to the facts of the case then.” 

The last of the light-heartedness left the room; Jaw Breaker sighed and flipped open the manila folder in front of him. “Okay—we watched the tape eight times through looking for anything helpful. For the record, this has been one of the sickest things I’ve ever seen, and personally I can’t wait to see the perpetrators strung up for it.” 

Across the table, Licorice nodded in grim agreement. “Yeah. The first time through was to get the shock out of the way. Basic all-male three-way with two masked men and an underaged Latino boy. Afterwards one gets his hands up around the kid’s neck and strangles him. Lots of close-ups. The other stabs him in the belly, one long upward thrust with a machete.” 

Sara felt herself blanch; across the table Mr. Peppermint’s mouth thinned out. He nodded for Licorice to go on; the man did, his voice low. “It was all one continuous take, with directions being muttered in Spanish, and pretty damned well thought out. Concrete floor with a drain, plastic laid down for the viscera, and the two murderers being hosed off by someone off camera after the slaughter.” 

“We looked at the perps, the boy, the room, the weapon, the plastic, even the damned hose, and what little we have is right here,” Jaw Breaker sighed. “And it’s not much. Whoever filmed it was focusing on the murder, so even with Bubble Gum’s expertise in digital imagery we’re not much ahead.” 

Mr. Peppermint nodded. “What DO we have then?” 

“One of the murderers has a tattoo—a spider web capping his right elbow. The other one has a scar along one hip; could be surgical,” Jaw Breaker commented. 

“Is the web Old School?” Sara asked, frowning. 

Licorice nodded thoughtfully. “Could be—the perp’s old enough to have done time, or be in the Brotherhood. Still not much of a lead, though.” 

“It’s better than nothing,” Mr. Peppermint assured him, “and the scar?” 

“Looks like a repair for an injury—he’s got a few others that aren’t surgical down the same leg. If I had to guess, I’d say he probably wiped out in a motorcycle accident. Nothing definite though,” Jaw Breaker mused. “I had a cousin who was in one, and he’s got a similar looking set of scars on his thigh.” 

Mr. Peppermint nodded. “So we’ve got some starting points. I guess Macy and I need to go see what’s what at Tia Carumba and secure us a few hotel rooms in Alamo. We’ll call you in a few hours.” 

_* * *_

“I hate you,” Gum Drop told the little dog at his feet, his tone conversational. “You’re only here because the boss lady likes you, and because Mom says you sulk like a petite canine Lindsay Lohan when you’re at home. You won’t even perform as a stud, which is . . ." He shook his head at the thought, his crooked frown trying not to turn into a smile, “ . . . alarming. Honest to God—free sex and you turn it down to hang out _here_?” 

The Pekingese didn’t bother glancing up at Gum Drop. Instead, he perked up his ears at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall towards the lab. After a moment, the solid form of Sugar Daddy stood in the doorway looking in. Grenadine scurried over and absently the man petted him. 

“Hey Mop,” Sugar Daddy murmured with light affection. After doling out a hand lick that was the equivalent of a doggy high five, the Pekingese trotted back to his basket under the lab table and settled down. Sugar Daddy looked at Gum Drop expectantly; the lab technician sighed. 

“Don’t ask—he thinks he’s some sort of sentry dog.” 

“Actually I was here about that water glass with the fingerprints,” Sugar Daddy asked lightly. Gum Drop nodded and fished a printout out from a drawer, handing it over with a slight frown. 

“No criminal record, but I did get a reference from a government employment card. You’re looking at the fingerprints of a Delta—that is, someone who’s been retired from his or her Top Secret classification with our Federal government. Bubble Gum was able to get out before we got traced for it, but the Feds are getting faster and unfortunately, we didn’t get a name.” 

“Delta huh? Interesting,” Sugar Daddy mused, thinking back over his list of Federal contacts and wondering which of them still owed him a favor. “Thanks.” 

“No problem. I’ll make sure a duplicate of the search is sent up to Miss Lollipop’s files.” 

“You know, why don’t you let _me_ handle that? I was on my way up anyway, and it will save you a trip,” he lied smoothly. “I’ll make sure to let her know how quick both you and Bubble Gum were on it.” 

Gum Drop brightened, and handed over the second printout, his normally sardonic expression now hopeful. “Great. Thanks. I appreciate the good word.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Sugar Daddy replied politely. He took the two printouts and walked with deliberate casualness down the hall again, out of sight of the lab. At the end of the hallway, by the bank of elevators, he pushed the button for the top floors and began to think of a reasonable cover story, even as he pondered the implications of what he’d found. 

So Miss Lollipop had a relationship of some sort with a top ranked ex-government Fed. 

That explained a few things, and confused a few others, right off the bat. Sugar Daddy breathed a sigh, wondering how much of his interest was fueled by interest in Miss Lollipop, and how much was curiosity about the workings of the Shop. He’d been a faithful employee for over a decade, but that was before he’d realized how much of his loyalty had slowly shifted to the Lady herself. 

A personal tie—was he her father? An uncle? A former boss? Tantalized by these thoughts, Sugar Daddy stepped into the elevator, tucked the papers into his inside jacket pocket, and rode upwards in contemplative silence. 

_***_

Grissom followed Miss Chocolate out to the rental car in the parking garage; a sporty red Miata was carelessly mis-angled in a slot near the exit. Miss Chocolate pulled out the keys and jangled them in the air. 

“Macy likes to go reallllly fast,” she murmured. 

Grissom gave a faint sardonic smile. “Why is that not a surprise?” moving forward, he snagged the keys, tugging, but she didn’t let go. 

“Ah-ah. I’m the director, I get to drive,” came her throaty chide. Grissom leaned forward, giving in to the flare of irresistible heat between them. He growled back. 

“Listen--for the next few hours I have to stick my heterosexuality and libido on a back burner—at least give me the satisfaction of one LAST moment of machismo here,” he breathed in her face. 

Miss Chocolate laughed aloud, her head back, her long throat beautiful in the dim light; Grissom took advantage of her distraction and tugged the keys free of her grip triumphantly. 

“Okay, okay. By the way, I didn’t hear what you thought of the whole Macy MacDonald getup.” 

“Get up; that certainly fits the situation,” Grissom muttered, dropping into the driver’s seat. Miss Chocolate slid into the front passenger seat and settled in, tugging her belt over her lap. 

“Are you saying it’s a tad risqué?” 

“I’m saying it’s already violating standards of decency in several states and could jumpstart the average teenage boy through puberty and beyond,” Grissom balefully replied, and turned the ignition with an annoyed twist. Miss Chocolate laughed as they drove out of the garage and out into the sunshine. 

Grissom pointed the car north, and soon they were moving up the 93 at a good clip. Because the wind was blowing and the top of the Miata was down, neither of them attempted conversation. He tried to keep his concentration to the road, but his gaze occasionally strayed, mutinously, to the woman next to him. Miss Chocolate smiled, although her eyes were hidden from view behind her rhinestone-studded sunglasses. She looked cool and relaxed, enjoying the ninety-minute ride along the desert highway. 

By the time they reached Alamo, Grissom felt a bit more comfortable; they drove through the tiny town and continued onward, slowing enough for Miss Chocolate to run her fingers through her tousled hair and sigh. “So much for all the fuss in front of the mirror today.” 

“I’ll lend you a comb,” Grissom told her archly. “Lord knows you need to make a good impression, being a porn director and all.” 

“Oh that is SO catty.” 

“Eat it up, honey—we’re almost there.” 

The turnoff was a barren little turnout along the highway, marked only by a break in the dreary chain link fence that stretched along the edge of the 93; Grissom pulled in and drove along the rutted road. “You have the password?” 

“Password?” Miss Chocolate asked, a little startled. 

Grissom nodded smugly. “Changes weekly; it will get us in to the main office. Today it’s Mitchell Brothers.” 

Miss Chocolate looked over the top of her sunglasses, her expression intense and enigmatic. Grissom felt a flush of heat over his face, but kept his eyes on the bumpy road. “Yes?” 

“Is there anything you don’t know?” she demanded in a sultry voice; his mouth tightened in a quick smile as they pulled up to a little guard house with a paddock gate across the road. 

“What I don’t know, I can find out, very quickly," he told her before slowing at the window of the concrete cinder block guard booth. A stringy-haired man chewing on a toothpick looked out at them, his expression wary but not openly hostile. 

“Can I help you folks?" 

“Mitchell Brothers. We’re here to see Dan and Fran?” Grissom pleasantly told the guard. The man gave a nod, his attention focused mostly on Miss Chocolate. Or rather, the front of Miss Chocolate’s shirt. She gave him a coolly neutral look in return. 

“Ain’t I seen you before? Did you star in When Harry Wet Sally?” the guard asked with interest. 

Miss Chocolate gave a little shake of her head, and Grissom sensed she didn’t dare look at him. “Uh, no, that was Patsy Fuller. Me, I haven’t done showers in ages,” she replied. “I’m _behind_ the camera now.” 

“That’s a waste.” The man managed a quick grin and climbed off his stool to open the gate. He waved them through; Grissom shot the Miata past with a little growl, his head shaking. 

“It’s show time . . ." he sighed. 

The road was paved here, and turned down a steep embankment, out of sight of the highway. Here in the gully, it formed a large square with buildings on each side of a central park-like area. Grissom pointed with his chin to building on the east side that had a large sign reading “Office” over a gated doorway. He parked the Miata in the lot next to the building, looking over the other vehicles with interest; most were Econoline vans and nondescript pickup trucks, but there were a few notable exceptions including a VW Beetle in bright pink, and a Rolls Royce Corniche. 

They walked in together, and Grissom studied with keen interest the busy atmosphere as Miss Chocolate pulled off her sunglasses. Phones rang, a fax machine chugged out a few sheets of paper and a general discussion between a short impatient woman in a striped bathrobe and another woman behind the counter echoed in the room. 

“I can’t get into Studio A North, okay? They went to lunch but my damned cell phone is in there and I need to get in and get it!” 

“Okay, Carla, okay, calm down. Just let me give Dan a call to watch the desk and I’ll go let you in.” The woman behind the counter gave a little wave at Grissom and Miss Chocolate. She had long black ponytails streaked with silver, and looked comfortable in a man’s dress shirt and jeans. “Hey folks—my brother will be here to take care of you in just a moment, okay?” 

Grissom nodded. Miss Chocolate was busy studying a large whiteboard mounted on the wall next to the counter, which had the legend CURRENT PROJECTS listed across the top. Under that it had various titles listed. 

_Bop Goes the Weasel—-Studio A East_  
American Fur Pie------Studio B East  
Open Season---------Studio C East 

_Gushed Away------------------Studio A West_  
Happy Meat--------------------Studio B West  
The Devil Wears Condoms—------Studio C West 

_Bridget Bones—----Studio A North_  
Deja Goo---------Studio B North  
Open-------------Studio C North  
Open-------------Studio D North 

_Open-----------------Studio A South_  
Open-----------------Studio B South  
Animated Shorts--------Studio C South  
Cool Whipped----------Studio D South 

It was difficult not to smirk and Grissom was glad to see he wasn’t alone in that general reaction to several of the titles. Miss Chocolate’s cheeks were pink and she turned away from the board, fighting hard to keep her composure. 

The two women left together, and for a moment Grissom and Miss Chocolate were alone; Grissom moved over to her companionably. 

“Nice to see the lines are drawn. Studio West looks mainstream; Studio North is definitely gay, and I guess Studio South is a Specialty lot." 

“And Studio East?” Miss Chocolate murmured, “I’m sensing a trend for—" 

“Hi folks!” came the muffled voice from behind the counter. Grissom and Miss Chocolate looked over to where the tall and imposing bear of a man stood. Literally; he wore a furry costume of thick brown shag complete with headpiece and muzzle. As he laid his paws on the counter, his claws clicked. 

Grissom sensed that Miss Chocolate was very close to losing it, so he cleared his throat and stepped forward, waving a hand. “Hi . . . Dan, is it?” 

“That’s me. How can I help you?” came the bear’s cheerful but muffled question. Grissom began to speak, but Miss Chocolate broke in, her voice steady. 

“Hi Dan. I’m Macy MacDonald and this is my cameraman Laird Donovan. We were hoping you had some space in Studio North for a musical we want to shoot—at least two sets indoors and two outdoors?” 

It was hard to read facial expressions on a bear head, but the happy perk of Dan’s shoulders said a lot. “Oh Wow! Macy MacDonald, yeah! I saw you in Hogtie Me to Heaven with Dillard Max and Big Daddy Hunt! Tell me--can you still _bend_ that way?” 

“Absolutely,” she purred. 

Grissom didn’t look at her; under his breath he playfully murmured, “You slut.” 

“And nothing but," she replied with a grin in the same low tone. Out loud to Dan she laughed. “It’s been a while, but I keep a hand in. So—about that studio space?” 

“Oh yeah sure! We’ve got C and D North just cleaned up today—the producers there just finished Captain Swallow and the Black Pearl Necklace I think. Anyway, both lots are available. As for location, we’ve got a back lot with a drained pool—makes for some good sets, and a cleared scrub area you can paint any colors you like. I’ll need you to fill out the paperwork and give me the info on your production company. Musical, huh?” 

“Yep—the Adventures of the Star Ship Intercourse,” Grissom waved a palm in the air as if reading a marquee. “Boldly going where a few thousand men have gone before, but with _style_ this time.” 

Dan the Bear laughed pleasantly. “Well, as long as you throw in some bondage and alien probes, you’ll make money. Going to need a dubbing studio?” 

Miss Chocolate nodded. “Towards post-production, most likely. Would it be possible to look around?” 

“Oh sure, no problem!” Dan the Bear agreed. At that moment the door opened and the first woman returned, and her brother made the introductions. “Fran, guess what? Macy MacDonald wants to film a musical here!” 

“Oh that’s totally BOSS!” the woman cheered, walking back towards the counter. “There just aren’t _enough_ good porn musicals, I’ve always said.” 

“Isn’t _that_ the truth,” Grissom agreed with her, feeling a sense of the absurd sink into the conversation. Dan the Bear nodded and made his way around the counter; up close the faint odor of honey drifted from him. He spoke to his sister once more. 

“This is Macy, Fran, and her camera man, Laird. I’m going to take them on a quick walk through over at Studio North, C and D. Man the desk?” 

“No prob, but I need you back by three. Raoul is going to be doing Jell-O shots and I don’t want to miss THAT!” the woman sighed happily. 

“Drinking?” Miss Chocolate asked. 

Fran shook her head, a little kooky gleam in her eye. “Throwing. They’re like paint balls, but messier, and then the girls lick them off each other.” 

“Ah.” 

“This way folks. We’ll take one of the carts over, all right?” Dan waved a paw towards the door and shuffled out. 

Miss Chocolate leaned in towards Grissom and whispered. “We’ll let him drive—he’s probably smarter than the average bear.” 

_***_

The room lay in darkness, and except for the flickering images on the wall screen on the other side, no light shone anywhere. Artfully hidden speakers broadcast the grunts and groans syncopated to the action taking place on the plasma screen. 

The watcher breathed heavily, seated close to the edge of his chair, his eyes focused tightly on the action. Impatiently, he pointed the remote and moved forward through the rough sex, bypassing the last loud climax with annoyance. He hit the ‘play’ button a few seconds later and onscreen the three drained figures leaned against each other, muttering softly, voices thick and satiated. 

Then the hands. Big and callused, they slipped around the smooth throat, starting as a rough caress, but tightening in a sudden squeeze that cut off air quickly; mercilessly. 

Quickly the watcher opened his fly, slipping his own hand inside. 

Squeezing. 

The writhing, then fierce struggles and flailing hands, smaller fingers digging uselessly into a grip around the Adam’s apple. 

Long, sweet glorious minutes of it . . . the hard arching of the spine, the splash of urine down the inner thighs and the slow slump of the torso. 

The watcher breathed hard and groaned as splashes of sticky heat spattered across the front of his slacks. On the screen, the hands loosened. Then the blade flashed, a bright gleam seconds before the wet, squelchy plunge, and the cascade of impossibly rich blood splashing out. . . The watcher gave a shuddering sigh and withdrew his fingers, wiping them carelessly across his thigh. 

He hit the rewind. He reached for the cell phone on the coffee table and dialed a number. After several clicks, a distance ringing echoed in his ear. Three rings and then— 

“¿Bueno?” 

“Bueno. Deseo más. Deseo otro,” came the harsh whisper, the accent mangled. On the other end of the line came a low, humorless laugh. 

“Costoso. E aventurado,” came the quiet taunt. The watcher sighed impatiently. 

“Three times as much. Two boys.” 

There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, the gruff voice sighed. “Si.” 

In the darkness, the watcher smiled and gently turned the cell phone off. 

_***_

Hector Cortez checked the order again. One small veggie special, one medium supreme, an order of breadsticks, along with a two-liter of Coke and a pair of bottled waters. He looked at the motel room numbers at the Desert Hills and frowned. Carefully he knocked at room 12. 

The door opened and a man in a Hawaiian shirt nodded at him, smiling faintly. “Good, glad to see the service is reliable around here. How much do I owe you?” 

Hector rattled off the price, looking into the room. Everyone in Alamo knew the Desert Hills was where the dirty movie people stayed, and sometimes a delivery kid got lucky—big tips, or other perks . . . The man pressed three tens into his hand and smiled again, his fingers lingering. 

Hector decided he didn’t want to get _that_ kind of lucky and quickly made change before taking off again. 

From the connecting doorway, Sara fought not to laugh out loud; Mr. Peppermint shot her a disapproving look. “Fifteen percent—a decent bit extra.” 

“He thought you were coming ON to him. Honestly, you’re too good at this.” 

Mr. Peppermint set the pizzas down on the little table. He sighed. “I don’t know if you realize what a small niche we’re in. The entire population of this town is only about a thousand people—every time that door opens, we’re ON. We have to be.” 

Sara stepped into his room and over to him, sliding her hand along his shoulder, up to caress his neck. Mr. Peppermint turned his face, and she lightly touched the wiry little soul patch under his bottom lip, toying with it. “And behind closed doors?” 

Mr. Peppermint didn’t smile, but the glint in his beautiful eyes made heat run down the length of her stomach. He hooked an arm around her waist and tugged her to him. 

“Behind closed doors . . . “ he murmured. 

He didn’t get to finish. Another knock came, this one to the door of Sara’s room, followed by a loud, familiar voice. “Yo, Miz MacDonald it’s us.” 

Sighing with frustration, Sara stalked over and yanked her motel room door open for Licorice and Jaw Breaker. They smiled at her, arms full of KFC buckets and a six-pack of beer. 

“Lennie; Carl—good to see you made it,” she told them in resignation. 


	4. Chapter 4

Catherine Willows adjusted her handbag on her arm and stopped briefly to check her reflection in the big glass window of the shoe store. Around her the other shoppers in the Forum bustled by, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. With a casual crane of her neck, she looked right and left, hoping to spot something would justify the little tingle at the back of her thoughts.

 

On the left, she noted a round-shouldered mall security guard letting a little girl look at his walkie-talkie as her mother laughed and bought sodas from a vending machine. Looking right again, Catherine saw a pack of teenage boys sauntering past, talking loudly about someone named Michelle, and beyond them, a cool blonde in sunglasses, casually flicking her hair back as she sat on one of the low benches.

 

Then Catherine noticed the woman’s boots.

 

There were expensive, but the right one was definitely wider at the ankle than the left one, which meant there was something more in it than just her leg and foot.

 

Forcing herself to be calm, Catherine finished her primping and checked her watch; Lindsay would still be with Lily at the Build-a-Bear making presents for her cousins. 

 

Moving casually, Catherine looked further down the promenade and noted that the Linens and Things was a walk-through store, with doors both inside and outside the mall. She sauntered over to it and went in, taking her time in examining a display of bath loofahs and pumice scrubbers just on the inside of the store.

 

The blonde woman in sunglasses waited a few minutes and then got up and moved towards the Linens and Things. Catherine felt her pulse speed up a bit as she watched through the glass. Turning and walking more quickly, she made her way in the direction of the curtain and drapes department, slipping into one of the little side nooks there. She found a heavy brocade drape on display. Quickly, Catherine ducked behind it, pulling a few prop pillows to the carpet.

 

Carefully she held the drape closed and pressed herself to the back of the display wall, letting the pillows block any view of her feet. Catherine held her breath and concentrated on listening. Half of her felt like an idiot, playing hide and go seek in the drapes, the way Lindsay would have a few years ago, but a deeper, more primitive instinct kept her behind the heavy cloth.

 

She heard footsteps; boot steps moving on the carpet, slowing and stopping for a second. Then they moved away, back in the direction they came from. Catherine waited. Torn again, part of her wanted to peek, but she fought the urge and closed her eyes, silently counting to seventy-five.

 

The oddest thing that kept rolling around in her head, the little unstoppable thought wasn’t a who or even a why; it was how long.

 

How long had Sam been keeping tabs on her?

 

When the last slow number rolled out across her mental counting, she checked her watch. Six minutes since she’d stopped at the jewelry store window. Very gently Catherine pulled the drape open on one side and looked out--

 

\--Right into the amused blue eyes of the security guard. He smiled at her.

 

“Boo?” he murmured. Catherine flushed bright red, but he didn’t give her time to say anything. With a little nod of his head, he indicated the inner door mall side of the shop. “Go on back out the way you came in. Nobody will bother you," he hesitated and then spoke with a deliberate slowness, “--But just to be safe Ma’am . . . you may want to get a cab.”

 

Startled, she stared at him. A nondescript man in a blue security guard uniform, a middle-aged and snub-nosed guy, but with a gaze so sharp it seemed to see right through her. Something in the quiet confidence of his expression gave Catherine a little warmth and she nodded.

 

She took a few steps then looked back. The guard motioned to her to keep going. She re-shouldered her purse, striding off into the mall, pulling out her cell phone and hitting speed dial. “Hello Mom? Listen, ah, I’m having ignition trouble with the Lexus, so I’m getting a cab and I’ll meet you and Linds at home, okay?”

 

Watching her go, Sugar Daddy gave a little sigh; the Senator’s daughter had a cool head and the right instincts. He picked up his walkie-talkie and dialed a private channel, speaking low as he strode out of the Linens and Things and back into the main promenade. “Looks like we won’t have to do a pickup, honey. How are things going with the car?”

 

“GPS right on the undercarriage just where you said it would be; an expensive one, too. No Radio Shack job here,” came Sugar Baby’s cheerful voice. “I’m almost done with the additional transmitter.”

 

“Watch yourself—the Blonde might be up at any moment,” he fretted. Sugar Baby made a little affirming noise and clicked off. Sugar Daddy casually strolled back out into the mall and let his gaze travel around the area.

 

Miz Willows had made good time and was nearly at the end of the mall by the security kiosk in fact. He smiled, then shifted, moving down in the opposite direction, sauntering along as if he had all the time in the world. Sugar Daddy timed himself and reached the outer doors of the mall in time to see a very annoyed woman stalk into the mall, her sour expression evident in her scowl.

 

Impishly he smiled at her, but she ignored him and moved past, whipping off her sunglasses and peering around the crowd. Sugar Daddy shifted to the glass doorway to Waffle World, keeping an eye on the woman.

 

So Miss Lollipop’s intel was good, apparently. If the Blonde was in town, it meant that there was definitely trouble headed for the Senator’s daughter. The GPS confirmed that as well, and Sugar Daddy wondered how long it would take Bubble Gum to triangulate a location for the Blonde.

 

Sugar Daddy thought back over the four times he’d seen her; each sighting had been at or near a trouble spot in the last couple of years. She’d been hanging around the background the Kroeger trial, and again at the unfortunate Tidewell shooting. He hadn’t pegged her as a player on the other side though, until seeing her decked in a slinky dress and on the Senator’s arm at some gala in DC; that long blonde hair was instantly recognizable and a dead giveaway. 

 

Still, he didn’t think she was here to whack the Senator’s daughter—at least not here at the mall. More than likely she was doing just what he was doing: discreet surveillance. He watched her head toward the parking garage, then picked up his walkie-talkie.

 

“She’s on her way.”

 

“Gotcha. I’m out and watching,” Sugar Baby confirmed. Sugar Daddy made his way slowly towards the parking structure, unbuttoning his collar and generally giving the impression of a man going off-duty. He reached the ground floor of the lot and looked around, then spoke softly into the walkie-talkie once more.

 

“See her?”

 

“Yep. She’s cruised by once on foot. I think she’s going to check it out a bit closer. We’re on the third floor.”

 

“Be there in a few,” he confirmed, and moved slowly. He took the stairs, keeping close to a few other shoppers too impatient for the elevator. Sugar Daddy followed behind, and reached the third level, then slipped on the other side of a concrete buttress. His line of sight let him scan the floor easily, and he spotted the Blonde. She was standing at the door of the car next to Mrs. Willows’ Lexus, looking as if she was searching for her car keys. Sugar Daddy watched her scan the area, and settled in to wait.

 

The Senator’s daughter wouldn’t be back, but the Blonde didn’t know that—and once she clued in, it would be easy to tail her to whatever hotel she was staying in; maybe get a name to go with that face. Sugar Daddy smiled to himself, feeling pleased that even in an old game like this, there could be a new trick or two out there. He pulled out his cell phone this time and typed in a quick note to Ellie. 

 

UP 4 A TAIL? He typed. A second later, his screen lit up.

 

Y! HW LNG 2 W8?

 

10MIN. U DRVE, he replied.

 

LUV U DAD made Sugar Daddy grin, and he looked again to the impatient Blonde across the lot. 

 

* * * 

 

“I’m really sorry about the air conditioning breaking down on you guys out here,” Dan the Bear apologized again as he shuffled in with a cooler full of bottles of water and soda. Miss Chocolate smiled faintly. She sat in a director’s chair of canvas and wood, and stared at a brightly lit backdrop within the huge cave-like confines of Studio C North.

 

Today she had on a short white denim miniskirt and a cropped sleeveless black tee shirt with the motto “Love is where the lube is.” Her forearms were still covered with Navajo bracelets, and she’d pinned her streaked hair up in a messy bun, revealing the long, graceful curves of her throat.

 

“It’s okay, really,” she assured him. “I’m just glad the lighting works and we have a few fans on. Aren’t you . . . ?” she didn’t quite finish the sentence, looking at him in all his fur-suited glory.

 

Dan laughed, stroking his plush tummy. “The office air is fine, and after the first couple of years you get used to it.”

 

“Years?” Grissom asked distractedly. He was peering into the eyepiece of an Arricam ST, trying to adjust the focus, his Cubs baseball cap on backwards to let him closer to the camera. For some reason Miss Chocolate found the look adorable on him and said so, loudly. To his chagrin, the young studly hopefuls auditioning seemed to agree, given the number of flirtatious looks coming his way.

 

“Oh yeah. I’ve been committed to my inner bear for oh geez, seven years now? “ Dan murmured, pawing at one of the water bottles. “It’s just who I am. Most of the folks in Alamo don’t even blink anymore when I go to the grocery store.”

 

“Bears are generally considered cuddly,” Grissom pointed out, checking the light meter. “Macy darling, I think we’re ready for the next audition?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Thanks, Dan,” she told him and picked up a folder from the card table, flipping it open as the bear shuffled out of the studio. Her eyes widened as she studied the photo inside the resume.

 

“William Shafter . . . well, you’ve certainly got very big . . . qualification here," she drawled.

 

Grissom reached over and closed the folder, his expression pained. “We’re focusing on sing-ing?” he hissed at her. Miss Chocolate leaned back in her director’s chair and noisily sighed as she rubbed her forehead.

 

“Honestly Laird, you SO need to get laid. Chill out, all right? Musicals are supposed to be fun, but if we don’t have the right . . . players . . . it’s not going to be the campy sweet, hot little picture I have in mind.”

 

“Oh I can just imagine the picture YOU have in mind,” he snapped back.

 

From the backdrop came a little cough, and both he and Miss Chocolate looked over at the young man standing there. He wore a black tee-shirt that read “I only support Gay Marriage if Both Chicks are Hot” and a pair of green leather pants that looked as if they’d been painted on. His long brown curls were slightly damp, and the diamond stud through his lower lip glittered.

 

“Okay, William. So—what were you going to sing for us?” Miss Chocolate asked with amusement. He slouched a little, then straightened up. 

 

“Um, Bali Ha’i,” he murmured softly. Miss Chocolate shot Grissom a look. He shrugged and moved back to the camera, setting the focus as she leaned forward in the chair.

 

“Do you have music?”

 

“Nah, I can go a capella on this one,” he replied, shoving his hands in his back pockets. A few seconds later, Grissom gave a nod, and the young man began singing, his tenor strong and true. “Most people live on a lonely island, Lost in the middle of a foggy seeeea, Most people long for another islaaaaand, One where they know they would like to be--"

 

His voice, slightly gravelly but perfectly pitched, carried in the still, hot air of the studio, rising sweetly through the romantic lyrics. “Bali Ha'i may call you, any night, any day, In your heart, you'll hear it call you, come away . . . Come awaaaaay . . ."

 

“He’s good,” Grissom muttered in approval. 

 

Next to him, Miss Chocolate nodded slowly. “Oh yeah. He’s the one to cast for our lead, I think.”

 

“Bali Ha'i will whisper on the wind of the sea, Here am I your special island--Come to me . . . Come to me . . . Your own special hopes, your own special dreams, Bloom on the hillside and shine in the streams--” William sang, his expression tinted with longing. 

 

Miss Chocolate rose and slowly began to clap; around her the other auditioners did as well. William blushed and stopped singing, his long curls bouncing. Grissom turned the camera off and sighed, pulling off his baseball cap and wiping his forehead with his wrist before replacing it.

 

“Dear God, why aren’t you auditioning for one of the major talent finding shows, William? I mean it’s pretty clear to me you have the pipes for it—" Grissom demanded archly.

 

“Um, gay?” he replied with a modest little shrug. 

 

Miss Chocolate stared back. “So was that pipsqueak winner—the first one.”

 

“Yeah, but I’m not _ashamed_ to be gay,” William cheerfully replied. “And I’m not going to let the media tell me I need to be photographed with women just to cover up my real nature. I love men.”

 

“Me tooooo,” she murmured, touched by his honesty. “All right, thanks for the tape, and we’ll definitely be calling.” Turning to the other actors she added, “Listen up boys—it’s too damned hot to try and do any more casting this afternoon. Fran will give you a pass to come back tomorrow when the air’s fixed. I’m anxious to see alllll of you—"

 

There was a cheerful whistle of agreement and she grinned briefly, then spoke again, “So come get a water and we’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

 

The seven other actors filed out, each grabbing a bottle as they did so. Grissom carefully locked up the camera, then turned to see Miss Chocolate slumping in her chair, rubbing her forehead again.

 

“Headache?”

 

“Yeah. This musical . . . I hate getting their hopes up like this. If the movie isn’t really going to be made," she blurted. 

 

Grissom shook his head. “We’ve got a budget, so anyone we hire will be paid for their time, if that’s what you’re worried about. Miss L has faith we can find out what we need to know in a week or less.”

 

“Um hmm,” Miss Chocolate was nodding as she rose up from the director’s chair and stretched her arms over her head. They were alone on the set now, and her gesture exposed a lot of flat, trim stomach. Grissom gave a little whimper that shifted to a growl. Miss Chocolate laughed and shot him a speculative look.

 

“Let’s go back to the motel and take a dip in the pool. I’m feeling warm.”

 

“Me too,” Grissom confessed softly.

 

The ride back to Alamo was quiet; Miss Chocolate kept her shades on and said little. Grissom went a bit faster than he normally would and pulled into an empty space right in front of the rooms. The heat of the afternoon baked everything, and the shimmer rising off the ground left the field of vision wavering. Grissom climbed out and turned to look at Miss Chocolate, his concern growing.

 

She was pale, and he noted with alarm that she wasn’t sweating. Moving around the car, he tugged the door open and grabbed her wrist between the bracelets, feeling the heat radiating off her skin.

 

“You’re hot,” he muttered, wishing he could mean that in a tease instead of a pained observation. She flashed him a wan smile and struggled to her feet, her clumsiness obvious.

 

“I feel a little sick," Miss Chocolate confessed in a low voice. 

 

Grissom slipped an arm around her shoulders, fished in his pants pocket for the room key, and jammed it into the door, then pushed it open with his knee. The blast of arctic air hit them both, and he wasted no time in towing her behind him into the coolness as he pulled off his baseball cap and threw it on the bed. Miss Chocolate gave a low moan, stumbling a little; Grissom didn’t hesitate.

 

“Bathroom. You need to cool down NOW.”

 

Tugging her again, more gently this time he steered her towards the bathroom and flicked on the light. The tiny room had a short tub offset against one wall and a striped cloth curtain pushed to one side. Grissom reached down for the faucet and turned it on, settling the shower dial between hot and cold, then glanced at Miss Chocolate.

 

She swayed, eyes half-closed, and he rose up to catch her against his chest. The feel of her against him, shocking heat seeping through her tee shirt made Grissom side his hands up and grip her shoulders. “Sandals off, in the shower," he ordered. Weakly she shuffled off her shoes; he kicked off his Top Siders and pulled her with him under the cascade coming from the shower head.

 

The water hit them at the same time and Grissom swore he heard a sizzle as it cascaded down Miss Chocolate’s shoulders and darkened her hair. Her head lolled back, the spray beating on her pale throat. Grissom tightened his grip on her upper arms; she struggled a little, then pushed against him, forcing him to step back a bit, his spine against the tiles. 

 

The shower streamed on behind Miss Chocolate; the flow was high enough on the far wall to drench them both, and Grissom wondered briefly why he was so light-headed himself, then felt the woman in his arms rock against him, her hips angling to his. The rush of pleasure, shocking and instant, hit him below the stomach and he groaned.

 

“Honey . . ." came his harsh, helpless whisper, his body responding fast to the sweet warm pressure of hers. Miss Chocolate moaned a little herself, her arms coming up around him as she pulled his face to her.

 

“You’re beautiful, wet—" came her dazed murmur right before she kissed him. 

 

Grissom fell into the scorch of her mouth, burning his tongue against the slickness of hers. He clutched her, kissing harder as the water pounded down on them, and the blend of chill on the outside and heat on the inside sent him into sensory overload. Suddenly she was taking over the kiss, nipping his lips and pressing her mouth all over his as her hands cupped his neck to keep him close.

 

“Tastes so gooood--!" she crooned, her eyes fever-bright. “Oh damn, yesss!" Her fingers tightened at the base of his skull, weaving into the wet curls and he shivered.

 

“We can’t,” Grissom muttered with no conviction. “We agreed, Frango. Not on the jo—" His words disappeared behind another scorching kiss, even as he yanked her closer, his hands cupping the drenched denim molded to her ass. The water dissolved his good intentions, his frustrations, and his patience.

 

Miss Chocolate slid her hands to his shirtfront and ripped it open, laughing in triumph when the buttons clattered off of it and into the tub. She licked his exposed collarbone, thrilling as his big frame shuddered in hard response. More water splashed around them.

 

Grissom slid his hands up along her back, the span of his hands nearly wrapping around her waist as his fingers dipped under the edge of the cropped, wet shirt. He pushed it up, greedily stroking the bare skin there, savoring the feel. Miss Chocolate had her mouth on the side of his neck, and one of her industrious slender hands was working the button over his fly.

 

He pressed his cheek to the wet tangles of her hair, one soft little word escaping him. “Sure?”

 

“Want,” she hummed back emphatically, punctuating the word with a sensual nip under his ear. Grissom’s stomach tensed hard, and he fought his answering growl. With a sigh of pleasure, he lifted his chin to the ceiling as Miss Chocolate unzipped him. Her fingers slid in and she purred, a sound that echoed in the shower. “Commando. Totally approve of that.”

 

“Better me than you—ooohhhh . . ." Grissom trailed off as her palm slid down the length of his twitching cock. He pushed himself against her touch, sighing and his response made her giggle in that maddeningly sensual way of hers. She widened her stance, moving to straddle his right thigh, her hand freeing him from the soaked denim.

 

In a haze of lust, he shifted his hands back down, tugging the little denim skirt up to caress Miss Chocolate’s bare slender thighs and sleek ass. The strand of thong was no barrier; he playfully hooked it on a finger, letting it snap against her lower back. 

 

“Christ, gift-wrapped too," came his groan.

 

Miss Chocolate wrapped her fingers around his prick and stroked the length of him, cooing huskily. “Mmmmmm, very nice . . ."

 

She straddled his thigh more firmly, rubbing herself with sweet lewd intent, and Grissom loved the way she kept her half-closed eyes on him, all brown heat and running mascara; the lazy laugh on her fuchsia lips turning into hot little grunts. He shifted and slid a hand into her wet thong to cup her sex; she protested for a moment, unhappy to stop the rubbing, but Grissom slid his tongue along her bottom lip and spoke in a hoarse groan. “Come against my fingers."

 

The water was warmer now, and kept spilling over them both. Grissom let his touch snag in the soft wet tangles between her legs, and slid his index and middle finger around the stiff darling bud slickly throbbing in the thicket of her fur. Gently, he caught it between his fingers and slowly rubbed on either side . . . 

 

Miss Chocolate sucked in a wet breath and tensed, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other wrapped around his cock. Dropping her head forward, she helplessly pushed herself against his hand as low hungry growls rose from her throat to echo against the tile.

 

Grissom felt her teeth sink into his shoulder, felt her long fingers tighten spasmodically on his hot, aching cock as the searing surge shot down his spine and through his balls. He felt himself erupt in Miss Chocolate’s grip, the sultry jets of semen spraying out against her bare wet thigh. A low animal groan escaped him, and he thrust himself harder against her gripping fingers.

 

Weakly, they slid down the bathroom wall together, ending in a soaked huddle on the tub bottom, exhausted and for the moment, sated; dazed.

 

Grissom pulled Miss Chocolate closer to him.

 

* * * 

 

Sam Vartann sat on the sofa, watching the football game. Or pretending to, anyway. It was difficult enough to watch when Reggie was in the same room, let alone right next to him.

 

Well, not quite next to him. Humph sprawled out between them, snoring softly, his front paws wrapped possessively around the half-chewed rawhide bone between them. Reggie petted the dog and the stub of his tail wagged in response, even in his sleep.

 

Sam was pretty sure _his_ tail would wag if Reggie ever petted him. He was pulled from this thought by the voice of Portia, who sat in the recliner a few feet away, knitting industriously.

 

“So, I keep turning out booties and hats, and still have no grandchildren to give them to. A fine state of affairs. I’ve heard that Lois has five grandchildren.” This last came out in an envious sigh.

 

“Yes ma’am. Two are in jail and one’s in juvenile detention. The other two live in a Colombian compound with their dad,” Reggie responded softly. Portia snorted, and tried not to smirk.

 

“Am I supposed to believe it’s all genetics? That O’Neills have a bad seed? What about that nephew of hers—the colonel out in Colorado?”

 

“General now—and _his_ record’s not exactly spotless either,” Reggie admitted. On the screen, someone made a touchdown, and the cameraman panned the cheering crowd. Sam made a little groan of disappointment; Reggie shot him a sympathetic look. “Sorry—I was so sure the Chargers would lose.”

 

“A bet’s a bet,” Sam sighed. “And Vartanns always pay what they owe.”

 

“I don’t suppose _you_ two would be willing to give me a grandchild,” Portia mused, her needles clicking softly. 

 

Stunned, both Reggie and Sam looked over at the woman. Reggie was slowly turning a lovely shade of pink; Sam blinked a lot.

 

“Excuse me?” he managed. Portia gave a sweet little smile and a shrug.

 

“It was just a thought. You’re both young and healthy, certainly prime material for parenthood, and I’m very fond of you both. I know Reggie would make an absolutely wonderful mother, and there is no one I trust more than you, Samuel, to nurture and protect a child. But, never mind me . . . just a lonely old woman with absurd little ideas here. After all, just because other people have families to love and cherish . . . “ She gave a sigh and let her voice trail off. 

 

An awkward and uncomfortable silence descended on the room, broken only by the announcer from the television and the soft clack of Portia’s knitting needles.

 

“But Tim . . ." Reggie began in a soft little voice. 

Portia sighed. “Tim is gay, dear. I love my son dearly, and I’m proud of him for all that he’s done, but given his sexual orientation, he’s not going to have any children. I’ve resigned myself to that fact.” With an annoyed snort she added, “I bet Lois gloats over THAT.”

 

Another silence. Sam risked a peek at Reggie, wondering what she was thinking. He had been startled, sure, but he’d also been around Portia Richardson long enough to know she liked speaking her mind, and this comment was immensely cheering. It meant she’d seen something between them, and Sam was all for that.

 

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about being a dad,” he commented honestly, wondering which woman would respond to that. He hoped it was Reggie.

 

It was.

 

“Oh Sam, you’d be a GREAT dad. You’re patient and caring and you can be gentle when you need to . . ." Reggie blurted, then stopped, stricken with Portia and Sam looked at her. “—I mean . . ."

 

“See? Even you agree with my assessment. I may be old, but I’m not senile,” Portia commented archly. “And I’m fairly sure Samuel agrees with my thoughts on your potential for motherhood.”

 

“Mrs. Richmond . . .” Reggie squeaked, her face flooding a deeper shade of red, “I’m . . . a virgin.”

 

Sam squeezed his eyes and thighs shut to fight off the sudden rush of sheer male lust rolling down his stomach to tighten his balls. Oh dear God—a virgin?

 

Portia hummed a little. “This is Vegas, Reggie dear—that won’t last long.”

 

* * * 

 

Sara hummed, her eyes closed. She was under the covers, toasty and comfortable in the darkness. The little nap had done her a world of good, and the feel of Mr. Peppermint’s big warm back against her cheek only added to the sense of well-being.

 

Napping together . . . yes, she could definitely get used to this. In response to her hum, he stirred, shifting to his back and stretching slightly; Sara moved to give him a little room and spoke softly. “Hey.”

 

“Hey. How do you feel?” he asked in a semi-whisper. She ran her hand over his tee-shirt covered chest.

 

“After that shower . . . much better. Much less . . . tense,” she chuckled. He gave a low wordless groan of agreement, his arm slipping around her shoulders and hugging her.

 

“Have you had any more water?” Mr. Peppermint murmured.

 

Sara shook her head. “Not since I woke up a few minutes ago, but I’ll chug some more if it will make you happy,” she sighed. He said nothing, but she felt his light squeeze again, and the pressure made her feel better. Shifting, she looked up into his face, feeling a surge of vulnerable affection as she did so.

 

His hair had dried into its natural curls, and his beard was stubbly now, showing as a shadow along his jaw. He shifted to a sitting position, stuffing the pillows behind him, and tugged Sara closer. She took a breath, draping herself on him.

 

“Look, I already know what you’re going to say, and I agree with you,” she spoke up, her voice deliberately light. “We had a little . . . lapse in discretion, yes, and I take the responsibility for that. In my defense, you were gorgeous all wet and I don’t regret anything about getting you off.”

 

“I don’t regret it either,” Mr. Peppermint agreed in a low rumble of satisfaction. “It was a fairly amazing encounter, heat exhaustion or not, and I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you are when you . . . orgasm,” he finished in a shy little voice. Sara curled her toes in remembered pleasure, and smiled.

 

“So . . . we have potential? Is that what you’re saying?” she asked. Mr. Peppermint gave another low, happy groan and turned to kiss the top of her head.

 

“We have potential. Combustible, incendiary, nuclear potential in my estimation. In fact, it’s potential I’d like to explore more fully once we’ve figured out this case,” Mr. Peppermint murmured wistfully. Sara sighed in agreement, lazily stroking his ribs.

 

“Yep. Certainly gives ME incentive to get on the job, that’s for sure. We’ll be fine until then, right?”

 

This time it was a low reluctant sigh that leaked out of Mr. Peppermint, and the sound of it made Sara laugh. She clambered over his chest to look down in his face, kissing his nose.

 

“A kiss every day, babe. We’ll make it. We have all the time in the world.”

 

Carefully, tenderly he slid his hands along the sides of her face and kissed her with slow passion. When he broke it, he sighed. “Just keep in mind that this isn’t a profession that allows for much tenderness, Frango. We’ve got to be . . . careful.”

 

She nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

Licorice looked around to see if anyone was watching. The general hustle and flow around studios A through C North didn’t faze him as he stood in front of a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and waited for Jaw Breaker to show up. Muted conversations drifted by, along with the people having them, as stars, cameramen and other assorted behind the scenes workers passed along.

 

Two tall women with pink spangled afros and tiny green bikinis eyed him appreciatively as they strolled up; one of them cocked her head. “Oh Hunk-Daddy, tell me you’re going to be on the set of our next scene, pretty please?”

 

Licorice took his time looking them up and down; the perks of the mission were definitely improving. He flashed a confident grin at the both of fluffy-topped seductresses. “Wishes do come true,” he murmured enticingly.

 

The other woman grinned, shifting to let her hip jut out as she batted her eyes. “You look like a stud who could appreciate a good full-body cotton candy wrap from two luscious leisurely lickers, right?”

 

Licorice paused, trying to picture the image, which by rights should have been disturbing, but . . . wasn’t. Seeing his quirky grin, the two girls laughed and sidled closer, draping themselves on his shoulders.

 

The first one cooed sweetly at him. “I’ve always loved candy with a chocolate center---"

 

“Hey Carl!” Jaw Breaker sauntered up, smiling sunnily, “And who are these nice young ladies?”

 

Licorice flashed a quick, annoyed scowl at this partner. “Nobody _you_ need to worry about.”

 

One of the girls gave Jaw Breaker the once over and broke into a grin. “And vanilla _too_ . . . this must be our lucky day!”

 

“Like taking candy from a baby," her partner agreed. Jaw Breaker caught Licorice’s eye and in tacit agreement they both nodded.

Licorice spoke up, regretfully. “Lucky isn’t the word for it, Sugar, but Lennie here and I have a pesky job to do, so we’re gonna have to pass on your sweet offer for the moment.”

 

The girls giggled, and good-naturedly let Licorice go. One of them reached up to tug one of his dreadlocks playfully. “All work and no play . . . but we get the picture. Maybe we can all go for a . . . spin later, right? Bunny and I are over at Studio D if you wanna come on over.”

 

“Sounds tasty—what’s the movie?” Jaw Breaker asked, his eyes twinkling. The girl named Bunny giggled, and linked arms with her friend, dragging her off down the hall.

 

“The Incredible Edibles." As they passed by Jaw Breaker, one of them reached out and pinched his ass; he flinched, eyes going wide for a second.

 

Annoyed but amused too, Licorice waited until the girls had left the building to snort at his partner. “You look like you’ve never been goosed by a pair of porn stars before."

 

“Oh no, happens to me ALL the time,” Jaw Breaker replied, turning to look back in the direction the girls had gone. “What’s with the pink ‘fros, anyway?”

 

“Cotton candy,” Licorice replied.

 

“And I bet those two are a circus all by themselves.” Both men grinned, and then Licorice nodded to the door behind him.

 

“I can get this door open if you keep an eye out on the hall here. There’s been some traffic this way and I want to see what’s down here.”

 

Jaw Breaker nodded thoughtfully, and moved a few steps out, settling himself in. He dug in a pocket for a cell phone and brought it to his ear, murmuring softly.

 

Licorice nodded. Turning, he took out the skeleton key and fit it to the lock then jiggled it gently. After a moment, it turned, and he twisted the handle of the door.

Licorice glanced over his shoulder. “Going down.” He fished out his own cell. “Talk me through it.”

 

Jaw Breaker nodded.

 

There were stairs, cement and cool here, and Licorice pulled out a tiny Maglite as he moved down in the darkness, squinting. The air was surprisingly damp, and tinted with the sharp tang of bleach. Licorice gave a low reactive grunt and spoke up. “Smells like somebody’s been cleaning. Ten steps down, no handrail--looks like a concrete bunker.”

 

“Big, small, what?”

 

“Big enough to shoot in,” Licorice commented grimly. “Cinderblock walls and a lot of equipment—ladders, window screens, some tarps . . ."

 

“Big enough to shoot in is not exactly helpful," came Jaw Breaker’s grumble. “General dimensions?”

 

“It’s about the size of a two car garage . . . oh hello, what have we here?” Licorice murmured. He stepped around a stack of boxes and looked at the far wall of the room, then squatted down to study the floor. “Okay, much more promising. I’ve got a possible hidden door.”

 

“No kidding? Whoa!" 

 

“No kidding. There’s a water heater bolted to a plywood frame that’s just about the same size as your average door. I see some faint tracks stopping at the edge under it . . . looking around, and . . . bingo. There’s a latch up under the shelf to the right, here.”

 

“Don’t go in, man,” Jaw Breaker warned. “We’ll set up a camera and see who uses the door, but for now, play it safe.”

 

“Gotcha. There’s a rack for tools on the adjoining wall—we could mount something there and get a feed going in half an hour if we do it now,” Licorice pointed out. He rose and looked around the room once more, the bright beam of the flashlight crossing over the assorted clutter. He focused on a tall shape leaning against another wall and walked over to it carefully. Licorice touched the cool slick surface. 

 

“Yo Nick—You remember what they put down on the floor?”

 

“Yep--industrial plastic, heavy gauge.”

 

“Yeah, well I’m looking at a roll of it right here,” Licorice intoned grimly.

***

 

Sara glanced up at the man and took a breath, trying to appear nonchalant. This was difficult considering the giant in front of her was nearly naked, semi-aroused and looming over her. “Okay, can you give me a nice low growl? Something menacing please?”

 

“Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—“ the man complied, his expression looking distinctly alarming. He was trying to scowl, but his naturally sunny expression kept coming through. Physically he had one hell of an imposing build, Sara thought. Monolithic almost, at just over six and a half feet. Burly, furry and definitely no slouch in the tackle department, but---

 

“Maynard, for God’s sake look _evil_ , will you please?” came Mr. Peppermint’s exasperated command. “The camera can only do so much to make you the bad guy. Growl a little, think about how you want to kill Captain Dirk, alright?”

 

“Okay Donovan,” came the cheerful reply, “but I don’t, really. He’s very cute.”

 

“Thanks, Maynard, “ William Shafter grinned. “It’s always nice to know.”

 

“Yes, well you two are supposed to be mortal enemies, not cuddle buddies,” Mr. Peppermint pointed out, stepping back from the camera. “Macy honey, I need to adjust one of the kliegs. See if you can make Kram the Merciless here a little more . . . merciless?”

 

Sara bit back a laugh and slid out of her director’s chair, motioning the two actors towards her. They stepped forward as Mr. Peppermint moved off towards the rack of lights. 

Sara sighed. “Okay guys, let’s try to concentrate. We’re right at the first time that Captain Dirk and Kram the Merciless meet on the alien planet. You’re both cool; you’re both professional, but underneath it all there’s an attraction here that’s intense and hot. I need you two to be able to convey that.”

 

“Totally _can_ do,” William smirked, looking up at the blonde Viking towering beside him.

 

The two of them were a study in contrasts; William’s brown curls and Maynard’s long Nordic blond hair, William’s lean, cat-like build and Maynard’s defensive-lineman–on-steroids look. Both of them had cheeky expressions though, and it only took a few minutes of observing the bigger man to know he was a genuine sweetheart.

 

Maynard grinned as well, tossing back his long straight hair. “Oh me too, but it’s tough to look like I want to kick his ass when I’d much rather kiss it,” he confessed.

 

“We’ll get to that, I promise,” Sara told him, fighting hard to keep her composure. “But for now, I need you to be in full Klingar mode. Think of yourself as the biggest baddest leather bear out there, Maynard. The universe is your candy ass, all right?”

 

“Ooooh,” Maynard nodded. He straightened his massive shoulders and flexed a little; offstage a few of the set decorators whistled appreciatively.

William Shafter laughed. “Come on, handsome, let’s see if you can scare the pants off me.”

 

“ _There’s_ an incentive,” Mr. Peppermint muttered, but he shot Sara an arch look and handed her a bottle of water. She took it with a little grin, and settled back in her director’s chair.

 

“Okay May, saunter on over like you’re going to scrape Captain Dirk off the soles of your big biker boots."

 

Maynard lumbered. On the set, one of the light stands swayed a bit, and startled, Mr. Peppermint looked up from the camera and then at Sara. She shot him a sidelong look and then slouched back in her director’s chair. “Keep going, ohh yeah, very hot, Maynard!”

 

The behemoth reached William Shafter and bent down, snarling in his face; to his credit, the shorter man didn’t flinch or laugh. Instead, he let the tiniest flick of his tongue touch his bottom lip in an unconsciously, undeniably erotic gesture. Seeing it, Maynard’s low rumble shifted from menace to longing as the two of them breathed in each other’s faces for a sweet, tension-filled moment.

 

Sara shifted in her chair, grinning. “Cut! Oh that was beautiful, William, just perfect—very, um, sexy.”

 

The two men reluctantly looked away from each other; Maynard was blushing. Mr. Peppermint stepped back from the camera and moved behind Sara’s chair, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

 

“I think we may be witnessing serious charisma here. I also want to lick your neck.”

 

“Agreed, and later. Have you heard from Lennie and Carl yet?”

 

“Yes. They’re bringing lunch and info in about an hour, so we’ll have a nice picnic over on one of the empty studios." His breath was warm on her neck, and Sara shivered. She turned and laughed softly.

 

“Oh God I LOVE your aftershave, Donovan. Honestly, if you weren’t already living in sin with those three tomcat boyfriends of yours, I’d SO do you," she announced loudly.

 

Mr. Peppermint pursed his mouth in amusement. “Well for YOU, Macy, I’ll evict them.” Straightening up, he toyed with his chin tuft and added, “Okay, I think we can move on to the next scene, boys? Will someone let Bone McBoy and Mr. Cock know they’re wanted on the set?”

 

Sara bit her lips to keep from laughing out loud.

***

 

Sugar Daddy carefully reloaded his clip. Down at the end of the range, the paper human target on the hay bale fluttered a little, ventilated neatly through the center of the heart in a cluster any sharpshooter would be proud to claim. A moment later the mechanical arms replaced it with a fresh target.

 

No one else was on the range at the moment, and Sugar Daddy relished the privacy. He adjusted his stance and was staring down the barrel of his weapon when the cold quick glitter of something flashed in the corner of his left eye. 

 

He blinked, and suddenly a thin silver knife quivered in the heart of the new target. Sugar Daddy paused.

 

The booths had solid walls, to insure privacy and promote concentration. Carefully he pulled out the clip of his weapon and set it down. A second blade flew out, piercing the target, so close to the first blade that their handles clinked together. Sugar Daddy silently opened the door of his booth and stepped out, then glanced through the glass door of the adjoining one.

 

There was no mistaking the sleek, elegant curves of Miss Lollipop; he had that spine memorized. Carefully he watched as she reached into a velvet-lined oak box and pulled out another glittering knife. With quick cat-like moves she’d taken the blade, tossed it in the air, caught it by the deadly point, and sent the murderous missile flying in a deadly trajectory all in the space of a few seconds. It nestled in next to the other two blades, quivering slightly.

 

Sugar Daddy knocked on the door. Startled, Miss Lollipop turned and saw him. She fumbled with the case, closing it, and came to the glass door, trying to smile even though her composure was slightly rattled. “Oh! I didn’t realize it was you in the next booth.”

 

“That’s all right. Just getting in a little extra practice,” he commented gently. His focus was on the box, and seeing his interest, Miss Lollipop motioned him inside. It was cozy, and dark. He could smell her perfume; the scent always made his pulse jump a little with happy associations.

 

“So . . . knives. Sort of exotic,” Sugar Daddy mused, looking at the carved box resting on the ledge. Miss Lollipop nodded.

 

“Ah, but for my family, traditional. Blades are quick and never jam or need reloading. Blades travel well and are . . . reusable,” she confessed with a proud lift of her chin. “My great-grandfather had these made of sterling silver, and vowed he’d never lose one.”

 

“And?” Intrigued, Sugar Daddy hesitated. Miss Lollipop gave him a nod and he picked one up. The weapon was a long sleek single piece from handle end to pointed tip, and the double sided edges were wickedly sharp. He admired the balance, hefting it a little.

 

She smiled her dangerous little smirk. “He never did. He went into World War One and took out several enemies with his throwing. Mostly snipers. He passed the box onto my grandfather, who learned the art from him, and then carried them himself into battle against the Nazis. My father used them mostly for target practice, but when he was called to Korea . . . “ she trailed off and looked down for a moment, then up again. “Let’s just say each of these blades has drawn blood more than once and leave it at that.”

 

Sugar Daddy nodded. He turned the throwing knife over in his hands and shifted to look at the target. Miss Lollipop smiled and with a nod, invited him wordlessly to throw it. Carefully he gripped the blade between forefinger and thumb, then cocked his arm.

 

He threw.

 

The blade twirled, end over end and smacked flat against the hay bale, then clattered to the cement floor with a musical tinkling sound. 

 

Miss Lollipop chuckled softly, and leaned closer to Sugar Daddy, shrugging. “It’s never as easy as it looks.”

 

“So I see. What’s the trick?”

 

Her breathy reply near his ear sent a shiver down his spine. “The trick, as you call it, is proper technique and countless hours of practice, James.”

 

“Ah,” he replied, struggling hard to sound nonchalant. She didn’t shift away, and the press of her against his shoulder felt wonderful. 

 

“Would you like to . . . learn?”

 

He turned to look at her in the dim light of the booth, and the lovely image of her exotic face; the high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes, the knowing hint of a smile at the corners of that lush mouth made Sugar Daddy sigh softly. “From you, oooohyeah.”

 

That did make her smile, and she held his gaze for a moment longer, then pulled back with regret and selected another knife from the blue velvet of the box. She pressed against his back, letting her right arm stretch out along the outside of his right arm as she put the knife into his hand.

 

“You had it right the first time—you grip the very tip of the knife between your thumb and the side of your index finger. This is a very secure grip, and lets you feel the balance. Can you feel it?”

 

Sugar Daddy could feel a lot of things at the moment, the knife being the least important of them, but he nodded. Miss Lollipop’s breath warmed his ear again.

 

“Good. Now you need to keep your wrist stiff and cock your arm back.” He did so, feeling self-conscious about it, but Miss Lollipop made a purring sound of approval.

 

“Good?”

 

“Yes. Now, study the target and estimate—weight of the blade in your fingers, the distance, how hard you want to strike . . . all of these factors matter. When you feel comfortable—throw.”

 

Sugar Daddy thought about her words, He closed his eyes and concentrated, taking in all the variables she’d mentioned and then felt a weightless moment wash over him. With a swift hard snap of his arm, he threw the knife, and it flashed out, burying itself through the target and into the hay bale with a soft hiss of power.

 

He blinked. Only the end of the handle was visible, a little silver bulge along the bottom of the bull’s eye. Miss Lollipop drew in a breath. “Impressive,” she murmured, “For a first throw.”

 

“I’m a good learner,” Sugar Daddy replied modestly, feeling warm.

 

Miss Lollipop gave a single slow nod, and reached for another blade. Her concentration was off; with a little flinch she jumped, and pulled her hand back from the box. A tiny pinprick of blood welled up on the ball of her thumb. Sugar Daddy didn’t hesitate. He caught her smaller hand between his two big warm ones, and brought it to his lips, gently mouthing the tiny wound.

 

A low, helpless little moan slithered up Miss Lollipop’s throat as she froze, letting him press his mouth around her thumb. The sensations of heat, softness left her light-headed. 

 

Sugar Daddy had never considered thumbs erotic; truth be known he was more of a leg man if it came down to it, but at this moment the cutely sexy taste of Miss Lollipop’s opposable digit was giving him a serious hard on. Reluctantly he let it slide out of his mouth, and he reached in his jacket pocket for the handkerchief he kept there. With care, he dabbed her wound, not meeting her eyes.

 

“James . . ." she murmured in a voice he’d never heard before outside of a fantasy. Looking up, he caught the sudden brilliance in her lonely gaze, and the recognition of that expression hit him hard.

 

“Heather,” he replied huskily. She hovered for a moment, then carefully shifted closer, moving into his arms. Sugar Daddy took a moment to weigh his glorious good fortune, and knowing this risk was worth it, kissed her. 

 

They bumped against the box, which fell, and all the silver knives clattered out onto the cement in a musical cacophony that had no effect on the two entwined people in the booth.

***

 

Lois O’Neill studied her bandaged hand in disgust. It was nearly impossible to do anything, and not one of the mealy-mouthed assistants she’d hired could get things done. They couldn’t make coffee the right way, or do make-up, or even comb her hair without screwing things up. She growled, and stretched out on the lounge beside the big blue empty pool, annoyed and restless.

 

It was infuriating, waiting for a call. Who did he think she was? For THAT matter who did he think HE was? Lois fumed. Some two-bit lowlife punk, that’s all. A button man with questionable credentials, hired on the suggestion of—

 

No, better not to think about who’d suggested she hire the rat. Lois gritted her big horsey teeth, plotting best how to get out of the deal. Sure, Portia dead was the plan, but not for that brute’s asking price, and nobody, NOBODY got away with putting the hurt on her—

 

Lois’s sweet thoughts of murderous revenge were interrupted by the ring of her cell phone; impatiently she snatched it up with her good hand from the marble table next to the lounge. “Yes?”

 

“Portia Richmond is going to have an accident while shopping today. You may want to go buy a black dress,” came a familiar voice.

 

“Oh really? Well thanks for the update but I’ve got a newsflash for you, buster. I picked out the dress _ages_ ago.”

 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” came the reply, tinged with something close to contempt. 

 

Lois bristled. “It’s Vegas, asshole. People die here all the time.”

 

“Yes, the capital of unnatural causes. Three million, Miss O’Neill. I’d hate to see you with another cast.” He hung up before she could make a scathing reply, and the sudden silence of disconnection left her seething.

 

With an infuriated growl, Lois heaved the phone into the pool, watching it ‘plunk’ and sink down, the circle of ripples breaking the glassy surface of the water. 

 

For a moment she glared at it.

 

Then, a faint sound echoed up through the water, muted and distorted, but still recognizable; Lois gritted her false teeth and yelled. “Herbie! Get the damned phone!”

 

A frazzled blonde man, painfully thin and trendy scurried out, looking worried. “Miss O’Neill?”

 

She gestured impatiently to the water. “It’s ringing—go get it.”

 

Herbie looked out towards the middle of the Olympic-sized pool, then turned back Lois, rolling his eyes. “Bitch, please. I’m in Armani; don’t think I’m going in the water for a cheap ass cell phone!”

 

Lois rose up from the lounge and glowered at the man. She took a deliberate step forward, and her nostrils flared alarmingly as her voice came out from her clenched teeth. “Three words—I’ll fire you.”

 

“Three back atcha—tell-all book,” Herbie bravely replied, even though his voice quavered a bit. Lois looked thunderous for a moment, then her expression shifted into a slow, wicked grin.

 

“Cut me in for thirty percent of the gross and I’ll write it with you—hell, I can tell you things I’ve been doing to my household staff for YEARS, Herbie Boobie-kins . . ."

 

As she spoke Lois kept stepping forward; Herbie realized his dilemma only a second before he lost his balance and fell backwards into the crystal water. Lois laughed, hands on her hips as he spluttered to the surface. “You complete BIATCH!”

 

“You betcha Herbie. We have a deal on the book?” she purred, bringing one high-heeled foot to rest on his hand, which was clutching at the side. He nodded, smiling despite himself as he gave a resigned sigh.

 

Lois laughed. “Good. Should be a best seller. And while you’re in the water . . . get the damned phone.”

***

 

Grissom looked over at the two men sitting next to each other along the studio wall, then turned his attention back to the lens case he was trying to close. The low sound of their conversation—indistinct but friendly—made him grin a little, and he hoped things went well for them. They’d definitely clicked on-camera; anyone could see that, and somehow the goofy charm of this movie was catching.

 

Even the other actors were having fun. ‘Bone’ McBoy, AKA John Mancock, and Shaft Drillman, who was playing Mr. Cock were both seasoned pros in porn, but even they were having a good time, hamming up their non-sex scenes. The only flat note was the other Klingar, Rammer the Ruthless. Off-screen he called himself Steve Steele, and he kept to himself, aloof and faintly disapproving. 

 

He had a few interesting tattoos as well.

 

Grissom straightened up, giving the case one last pat and looked over where Miss Chocolate was chatting again with Dan. The grizzly seemed to have taken a shine to the production and had watched the day’s filming. Now he stood towering over Miss Chocolate, paws waving animatedly as the two of them spoke.

 

A hint of jealousy flared up within Grissom, only to be squashed instantly by his common sense. She’d never go for a chest THAT furry, he assured himself. Or that acrylic.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, Miss Chocolate turned and came over to him, her Navajo bracelets jingling. She handed him a clapboard, and murmured in a low voice. “Interesting . . . seems that Steve’s been around for a while here at Tia Carumba as more than just camera talent. He’s worked as a set builder and gaffer too.”

 

“The sort of man who might have the run of the place,” Grissom observed. “Who wouldn’t be noticed in the background.”

 

“My thoughts exactly. Anyway, Dan was happy to talk and get his mind off other things. He has a double funeral to go to this afternoon.”

 

Puzzled, Grissom looked at her; Miss Chocolate blinked, her face perfectly straight. “Yeah. Seems a raccoon buddy of his was, um, shot by a farmer out on the highway yesterday . . ."

 

“Shot?”

 

“From a distance—it’s pretty clear the farmer didn’t know it was a man in a suit. Anyway, the raccoon’s girlfriend, the lamb, died when her car hit her boyfriend, who had staggered back onto the road . . . ."

 

“Ram, baaa, eeew?” Grissom replied, keeping his face equally straight. It was too much for Miss Chocolate, who pressed a hand over her eyes, shoulders shaking, odd little snorts escaping her pretty mouth.

 

Seizing the opportunity, Grissom took her into his arms and patted her back as Dan wandered closer. “There there, Macy honey.” Over her shoulder and to the grizzly he added, “She’s SUCH an animal lover.”

 

“Yeah. The news was a real bummer. My girlfriend and I are going to the memorial—should be quite a gathering.”

 

“Your girlfriend?” Grissom asked, keeping his arms locked around Miss Chocolate. She felt nice right where she was, taking comfort from a friend, he decided.

Dan sighed, and nodded, his muzzle moving up and down. “Yeah. Her name’s Jane Doe." A honking car horn outside interrupted Dan and he perked up. "That’s her. Catch you guys later—the rushes looked great!” So saying, the grizzly lumbered off towards the door. Miss Chocolate clung to Grissom for a moment longer, trying hard to regain her composure.

 

“Jane . . . Doe?” she squeaked against his shoulder. “Dare we even LOOK?”

 

“Shhhh, you’re upset. You need to go back to the motel and lie down,” Grissom told her meaningfully. “Maybe even take a shower."

 

Maynard wandered over, looking a little depressed. “Dan’s gone huh? Saw his sweetie—nice rack, if you’re into that kind of thing. Have either of you seen William?”

 

“I thought he was talking to you,” Miss Chocolate murmured, pulling away from Grissom and wiping her wet eyes. Maynard shook his head, long blond hair swaying, his expression troubled.

 

“He was, but one of the set guys told him somebody at the front office needed to see him, and now he’s gone. I thought he’d be back by now, since he was getting a ride home with me.”


	6. Chapter 6

He knew he shouldn’t drive; the doctor hadn’t cleared him for it yet, but Sam Vartann gritted his teeth and kept going. The Ford 250 wove in and out of afternoon traffic under his steady but urgent control as he increased his speed, and he kept an eye out for cops as he did so. 

Sam growled to himself. Bad enough that he’d finally remembered where he’d seen Rafe before, but the sudden realization that the man now had both Portia AND Reggie with him was maddening. He swerved, going for the right lane and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself; flying off the handle never did a damned bit of good for anyone. Grimly, he slowed and looked for the Mesa Mall exit, trying to make himself relax. 

Not really possible. 

Sam’s big hands clenched the wheel until his knuckles went white, and he thought back to the day Portia Richmond hired him. 

_Three years ago, he’d walked out of the Las Vegas Police Department, literally, his arms wrapped around a junky cardboard box full of his desk stuff. The back of his truck already held his locker gear and one lonely barrel cactus in a clay pot. Sam remembered feeling a quiet anger deep in his gut; the sort of resentful emotion that rises when you know you’re right and the entire world is wrong but there isn’t a damned thing you can do at the moment to change anything._

_Sam Vartann had four commendations, ten years served and no job, all because IA had finally decided that while they couldn’t prove that he was the one responsible for the thefts from the Evidence Locker, he’d been the last person there according to the paper trail, and the sheriff wanted a scapegoat to close up the investigation. Hell, he’d probably been ORDERED to wrap it up, and if that meant cutting the youngest detective from the squad, so be it._

_And now all Sam had was an armful of office goods, a cactus and no clue about what to do next. He’d loaded the rest of his crap in and pulled out of the station, wondering if there was enough beer left in his fridge for a decent buzz. He’d gone nearly a mile on the highway and then the accident happened, five cars ahead and one lane over from him. An orange Chevy Impala had sideswiped a BMW while misjudging a lane change, and both cars had gone skidding to the shoulder. Sam’s instincts took charge before he realized belatedly he had no authority; nevertheless he’d pulled up behind the two cars and climbed out._

_Ugly scene. The Impala driver was swearing in Spanish, his machismo in full confrontational mode, his ego as scraped as the mural on his side door. Sam noted the man had welded a bowling trophy on the front as a hood ornament and the gaudy gold statue looked ridiculous._

_The BMW driver was an elegant older woman who looked slightly alarmed at the man’s blustering accusations. She was trying to talk him down, her fragmented Spanish clearly not up to the job._

_For a moment Sam wished he had Vega with him—that guy could talk an earthquake out of shaking; in Spanish OR English. Moving quickly, Sam had stepped up and assessed the damage._

_“Anybody hurt?”_

_That brought on a new barrage of accusations from the Impala driver, and it was only when Sam had moved to stand between the woman and the other driver that all of them had calmed down._

_“Since you don’t speak English sir, I’m going to request a bilingual officer. Ma’am, are you hurt?” It all came out instinctively, and Sam remembered the woman looking up at him with those bright green eyes._

_“I’m a little shaken up, but fine, officer.”_

_“Then it would probably be best if you sat down in your car while we wait for the police. Sir, are you injured?”_

_More Spanish, and this time Sam caught a hint of fear in the bluster. The man moved to climb back in his car, and Sam intercepted him; blindly the man threw a punch that missed._

_Sam ducked and grabbed the man’s wrist, spinning him around and managing to lock his arm behind his back._

_“Sir, that wasn’t too smart. Calm down!"_

_By then a black and white had rolled up, and two officers were out, moving towards them. One called out, “Geez Vartann—not even a day off the force and you’re already assaulting people?”_

_That stung, especially coming from a lazy donut gulper like Mahoney. Fortunately Sam felt better when they searched the guy’s trunk and found the four assault rifles and bags of pot. Not a major bust, but significant enough for the two patrolmen to give him grudging credit._

_And later, when he went to check on the BMW driver, she’d looked at him forthrightly. “Am I correct in understanding you are retired from the police force?”_

_Warily Sam nodded; no point in explaining the difference between dismissed and retired. “Yes ma’am.”_

_“Is it due to an injury or mental condition?”_

_God she was ballsy, and Sam fought a humorless chuckle. Whoever this broad was, she had nerve, that was damned sure. “No Ma’am.”_

_“Good.” And she’d handed him a card. He’d taken the thing and felt the weight of it, looked at the embossed letters in elegant gold script. Not a business card he realized; a calling card, like the old-fashioned ones his grandmother had. He looked at the name on it: Portia Richmond._

_He blinked, feeling stunned. Everyone, EVERYONE in Las Vegas knew who Portia Richmond was. When he looked at her again, she winked at him._

_“You’re going to work for me, young man.”_

And that had been it. He’d been hired as her bodyguard that afternoon, given time to study and procure a concealed weapons permit and had been with Portia ever since. They’d gone to St. Moritz and the Virgin islands and Paris; he’d watched over her while shopping and dining and picking out tulip bulbs. Portia was smart and thoughtful, with a truly rude sense of humor at times, and Sam wasn’t quite sure when she’d become more than just an employer to him, but she had. 

And then there was Reggie, oy! 

Sam remembered the day SHE had been hired with perfect clarity. He’d been shaving when the doorbell rang, and because Dolores and her sister never remembered their keys he’d stomped through the mansion to open the door, ready to launch into the familiar, exasperating argument. 

He’d yanked open the door, his face covered in lather, his bathrobe barely secured. “You know, Dolores, if you can remember the code for the main gate, then it really shouldn’t be that damned hard—" 

“E-excuse me?” she’d asked, startled but after a second, amused. Sam remembered gaping at the Rubenesque, Titian-haired goddess standing on the doorstep. (He knew precisely what she was—Portia had insisted he take night classes to broaden his mind and Art Appreciation had been last semester.) 

“Oh. You’re not . . . Dolores. Or her sister,” Sam remembered mumbling, caught between embarrassment and fascination, taking in the ample charms and graceful confidence of the young woman poised before him. She had a dimple on her left cheek; a perfect little dint for a kiss. 

“Mr. Richmond?” she asked tentatively, to which Sam had shaken his head hard enough to send some shaving foam flying. 

“No.” 

“Forgive him please—this is Samuel Vartann, my bodyguard. I am Portia Richmond, and you must be the candidate the agency sent over. Ms. Owens, I believe?” came the amused voice over his terry-cloth-covered shoulder. 

“Yes Ma’am.” 

Sam had made himself scarce from that moment, but the memory of Ms. Regina Owens’s sweet smirk had been in his thoughts ever since. 

He caught the exit and ruthlessly cut off a taxi, weaving ahead of it with barely any bumper space to spare. The garage was full, but as luck would have it a space opened up just outside the Macy’s entrance and Sam took it, squeezing the truck in and parking it quickly. Startled shoppers along the thoroughfare moved out of his way, not wanting to get run over by the spiky-haired man with the big nose and the wild look in his eyes. 

Sam thought hard over the itinerary—Portia was a woman of schedules, and if today was Wednesday, it meant she’d gone to the bank and the bookstore. He sped up, swinging towards the escalators, feeling his throat tighten a little at the thought of Rafe, or as he first knew him, Raymond. Thick-necked enforcer for Bruce Eiger, questioned once in the suspicious death of a couple of mid-level bookies six years past, never arrested. 

Those bookies had gone out a fifth story window at the Tangiers, and the window had been closed at the time, Sam remembered grimly. 

He looked up, to the second level and the top of the escalator, spotting a few clusters of people starting down the slanting ride to the ground floor, and immediately spotted Rafe with the two women. Sam ran, recklessly plowing through people, trying to keep his gaze upward as a numb fear blossomed in his gut. 

As Sam watched, he saw Rafe motion Portia ahead of him and in that action understood exactly what the thug was about to do. One push, one hard shove and the brittle-boned woman would tumble fifty feet over the sharp-edged escalator stairs to land on the granite floor. At the very least Portia would have a broken hip, but it was far more likely she’d snap her neck, and the entire incident would all be chalked up as an unfortunate accident. 

“Hey! Portia, get BACK!” he shouted, reaching the foot of the escalator, and frantically climbing the up the rising one. Annoyed riders glared at him, but Sam kept taking the steps two and three at a time. Rafe froze for a moment, then lunged. He pressed his big meaty hand between Portia Richmond’s thin shoulder blades and shoved; she tried to grip the handrail, but the power of the man’s push was too much. 

She tumbled, her body clanking against the metal steps, and her startled cry echoed in the mall. Sam grabbed the rail and with a quick heave, jumped the handrails to land in the descending escalator. He ran up the ten steps and scooped, his big frame stopping her fall as he braced Portia against his arms and shins. She looked at him dazedly, and Sam saw the beginning of a black eye on her thin face. He crouched over her and drew his weapon, looking up to the top of the escalator, new fear in his gut. 

Reggie! 

Jesus, if he did anything to Reggie-- 

Rafe had one huge hand around her wrist and was trying to force her down the elevator too; people all over the second floor were frozen, watching the struggle. Sam helplessly tried to keep Rafe in his gun sight, but the escalator was still bringing him down, and Reggie kept shifting into the line of fire. Her hair had come out of its bun, and she was struggling hard. 

“Let me GO!” 

Rafe smacked her with his free hand, and the force of his blow made her head rock back; Sam growled. Suddenly, Reggie lashed out, kicking hard and when her high-heeled foot made contact every man in the mall watching winced. Rafe folded like a cheap briefcase, clutching his crotch and dropping to his knees. Reggie waited until he was nearly down to knee him in the nose for added measure. 

Sam felt like cheering, but the escalator had reached the ground floor and Mall security flocked over to him, their radios out, along with the nightsticks. He bent and picked Portia up, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder as he did so; the frail woman clung to him, her expression frightened for a only a moment. Then she drew a shaky breath and spoke up. “Oh Sam! This is going to throw off my schedule completely, won’t it?” 

He grinned at her. “’fraid so, Ma’am.” 

Then Sam looked up to Reggie. 

“I LOVE you!” he shouted. She blushed as shoppers on both the second and ground floor broke into spontaneous applause. 

*** 

Maynard looked from one person to the other, his expression seriously confused. “So lemme get this straight . . ." To Miss Chocolate he murmured, “. . . you’re not Macy Macdonald," and to Grissom he continued, “. . . And you’re not a cameraman," looking over at Licorice and Jaw Breaker he finished, “And they’re not stagehands. Okay, so are you guys cops or something?” 

“Or something,” Miss Chocolate nodded reassuringly. They were all crowded into one of the dressing rooms, anxiously waiting for Licorice to finish connecting the camera feed to his laptop. 

“So why don’t we go LOOK for William?” Maynard demanded plaintively. 

“Because first of all we don’t know that he’s missing, Maynard. Secondly, let’s just say our . . . jurisdiction is a little different than that of the local law enforcement," Grissom sighed. “Before we start breaking down any doors it might be worth a minute to see if what we’re looking for is actually behind them.” 

“Can I ask you something, Donovan?” Maynard requested. Grissom arched an eyebrow and shook his head; the other man nodded, satisfied. “Yeah, it figures. That’s going to break Shaft’s heart you know—he was working up the courage to ask you out.” 

“Some things were never meant to be,” Grissom sighed, not daring to look at Miss Chocolate.

Jaw Breaker shook his head, trying not to grin. “Maybe in the next incarnation, dude—we got a feed yet?” 

“We’ve got . . . something,” Licorice agreed, trying to lighten the screen a bit. The picture focused on a view of basement stairs, dimly lit. He nodded. “That’s the view from next to the hidden door. Let me see if I can move the camera . . ." 

It shifted downward, and Licorice focused the lens once more, making the smudgy footprints jump into focus. “Those big prints again. Looks like the roll of plastic’s been moved, too.” 

“That’s not good,” Miss Chocolate murmured anxiously. Before she could say anything more, a shadow flickered along the picture and everyone leaned closer to look. 

“God, you guys are like . . . FBI, right?” 

“Not quite," Grissom muttered. “That’s someone toting a camera case. Okay, new plan, because now I don’t think we have enough time to do this one by the book. Who’s carrying?” 

Licorice and Jaw Breaker nodded; Miss Chocolate did too. Maynard blinked, looking around, and Grissom drew in a breath. 

“If we go in, they’re either going to give up, or fight—we have them trapped to ground with no way out but through us. Given what we’ve seen, unless we can intimidate them from the first moment, we could be in for a fight. Against machetes.” 

Licorice cursed, low and heartfelt; Grissom nodded regretfully. Miss Chocolate perked up. 

“That same factor could work in our favor. We’ve got enough chemicals here to make up a quick tear gas. Or a smoke bomb. That could give us the edge--some potassium nitrite and a fuel of some kind; sugar maybe," 

Grissom looked at her, feeling a rush of admiration and lust surge through him. Miss Chocolate caught his wide-eyed adoring glance and the hint of pink on her face was answer enough. 

Licorice and Jaw Breaker, who were still staring at the computer screen, missed the exchange entirely. 

“That might work, yeah. Do we have any of that stuff around here?” Jaw Breaker murmured. 

“The potassium nitrite’s not a problem—there’s a special effects lab over near the main office, and I’m sure they’ve got some. It’s the sugar that might be hard to get in bulk,” Grissom muttered. 

Licorice glanced up at Jaw Breaker and the two of them grinned, then turned to look at Grissom. Licorice spoke up with a hint of embarrassment. “Oh, I think I know _just_ where we can find mondo sugar, Griss.” 

Maynard blinked. “Now we’re going to make smoke bombs? Just who ARE you guys?” 

Miss Chocolate reached up to pat the gorgeous Viking on the cheek, her bracelets jingling. “We’re the ones with the white hats, May. Let’s go get some potassium nitrite, okay?” 

He nodded and followed her out; Grissom spoke up. “If they’re getting the potassium, then you two need to grab the sugar. I estimate it’s going to take Steve and his buddies another fifteen minutes or less to get the camera ready and the set dressed for a slaughter. We have to move, guys." 

Licorice and Jaw Breaker were already at the door before he finished speaking, and Grissom turned back to the laptop monitor, sighing. 

*** 

The phone rang and absently Catherine answered it as she cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear, trying to find a place to set the cookie tray down. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey Muggs,” came the mild rebuke from her father. “Good to finally hear your voice . . . when are you coming home, honey?” 

Catherine froze, biting her lip. She shot a furtive look around the kitchen, even though she knew she was alone, and sighed. “Hi Dad, good to hear you too . . . ummmm, I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be back in Washington . . . Lindsay’s having a good time here, and her next semester doesn’t start for a while . . ." 

“Really? That’s funny, because I got the notice from Butterfield that classes begin next Monday, and the tuition was due at the same time. Anything you want to _tell_ me, hon?” 

“Dad . . ." Catherine began, and stopped. She set the tray down and gripped the little cell phone with both hands, feeling her mouth dry up a bit. “Right now . . . I just don’t know, okay? Washington’s been wearing me down . . . frankly I don’t know how you keep up with it all.” 

“I keep up with it because I’ve got my best girl right by my side, helping me,” came Sam Braun’s mellow voice. “We both know that. Now if you need time, then take it, honey. I understand how stressful things can get, yes I do. But I’ve got a dinner party scheduled for next week, and if you’re not here to give it that extra sparkle, then I’m going to be mighty disappointed, Muggs.” 

“That’s . . . not a lot of time,” Catherine replied numbly.

Sam Braun chuckled softly. “Oh you’re resilient, hon. I’m sure all the shopping out at the Forum is keeping you in shape.” 

Catherine tried not to draw in a breath, and shifted the cell phone to her other ear. “You keeping tabs on me?” she asked, trying to sound light. For a moment the line was dead quiet. 

“Oh Muggs, you know the answer to that. There isn’t anything you and Lindsay do that I don’t find out about . . . eventually.” 

“That sounds like a threat," she blurted before she could stop herself.

Sam Braun chuckled again, but this time there was a chill in it. “Now, now—you’re just overtired, Cath. Tell you what—I’ll come on out to see you, Lindsay and Lily, and we can all fly back to DC once the weekend is over.” 

“Dad—" Catherine interjected, but the line went dead. She pulled the cell phone from her ear, gripping it hard. For a second, Catherine stood there, frozen . . . and then threw it, hard. The cell phone flew across the room, hit the far wall of the kitchen and cracked, the pieces scattering across the brick floor in a cascade of metal and plastic. Catherine bit her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting panic. 

Moving quickly, she reached for the house line, but as she picked it up, she stared at the receiver and gently set it down again. For a moment she wavered, then carefully picked up the phone once more and quietly ordered a taxi. 

*** 

Maynard watched in fascination as Sara deftly poured the sugar into the paint cans as Mr. Peppermint measured out the potassium and Jaw Breaker hefted the mini blow torch. Licorice had a cell phone out and was talking to someone in a low and serious voice. 

“So what do you want ME to do?” he asked quietly, making it clear that non-participation wasn’t an option. Sara looked up at him from through her safety glasses and sighed. 

“Do you know first aid?” 

“Yeah. Enough to get people stabilized, if that’s what you’re asking,” he told her. Sara handed the two cans to Mr. Peppermint; he looked at Maynard appraisingly as he handed out bandanas to everyone. 

“Good; we’ll need you,” he told him before covering his face. 

They moved quietly down the stairs after Licorice picked the lock again, and this time there was more visibility. Voices carried in the stuffy storage area, and there was light shining from under the false door. Mr. Peppermint swung the two buckets and set them under the water heater, then motioned to Jaw Breaker with his chin. 

The younger man lit the blow torch, knelt down and began heating the cans. Within a few seconds, thick strands of white smoke began to trickle out. Sara fanned, along with Maynard, and the smoke moved under the door; slowly at first, but in thicker tendrils as the cans of chemicals melted down. 

Sara waited on the hinge-less side of doorway.

“What the fuck!” echoed through the thin plywood clearly, and a few seconds later the door burst open, making the water heater on it rattle when it hit the cans and knocked them out of the way. The first man out tripped over Sara’s out-thrust leg and fell, hard. Licorice leaned over him and dragged him out of the way.

A second later a familiar figure stumbled out, and before anyone could stop him, Maynard grabbed Steve Steele by the back of the neck and steered him in a hard arc against the wall, pushing him along, making his face collide with the bricks. Steve hit the wall with a solid ‘thunk’, groaned and slid to the floor in a greasy, sweaty pile. Smoke drifted everywhere now, thick and heavy. 

From behind his bandana, Mr. Peppermint looked at the unconscious man briefly and then at Sara, who winked. Jaw Breaker was tying up the first man, and Licorice and Maynard were on Steve. Sara yelled into the darkness, her voice muffled by the cloth over her face. 

“William?” 

A very weak ‘Yo’ sounded back, followed by a groan. Mr. Peppermint rose and stepped in cautiously, Sara on his heels. 

She could smell old blood in the darkness, a dank rotting scent, and bit back a gag. Mr. Peppermint was brushing the wall, looking for a light switch. He found it and flicked it on; instantly a sickly yellow light filled the small room, exposing the scene before them. 

William Shafter and a young stranger were hanging by their wrists, the crudely knotted cotton rope looped through hooks on the ceiling. They were naked, and under their feet, plastic lined the floor. A camera had been knocked over, and the mechanical sound showed it was still running. Sara darted over the William and began to tug on his bonds. 

“Mmmmmacy. Oh mmmmann my head hurts," William whimpered. She noticed the thin trickle of blood running down the side of his face, and the dazed look in his eyes.

The stranger shifted, his voice slurry and slow. “¿Dónde está esto? Quiero ir a mi casa,” the boy muttered. 

Mr. Peppermint had a knife and cut the rope as he slipped a supportive arm under the boy’s bare shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you out of here," came his quiet reply. 

*** 

Steve Steele wasn’t cooperative. He sat on an office chair with his hands cuffed behind him, openly sullen and silent. Mr. Peppermint sat across the card table from him with Jaw Breaker behind him; Licorice stood guard at the studio door, and Sara posted herself behind Steve Steele. 

Maynard had taken William and the boy over to the First Aid station near the main office; he’d been told not to tell Fran the true situation just yet. 

“Who are you making the movies for, Steve?” 

“Nobody. I don’t have to talk to you.” 

“Yes you do, Steve,” Mr. Peppermint replied in a light, slow voice. He took a breath and asked again. “Who is paying for the snuff films?” 

Steve rattled off a string of profanity that Sara stopped with a hard smack to the back of his head; infuriated, the man turned and glared at her. “That’s fuckin’ brutality! I want my lawyer to sue this bitch’s ass right now! I know my rights, and you cops can’t TOUCH me!” 

Mr. Peppermint smiled, and instantly the room grew a little colder. Seeing his expression, so mild and merciless, made Sara shiver. Even Jaw Breaker shifted in reaction, though he stood behind Mr. Peppermint. 

“We’re not the police.” 

Steve blinked, uncomprehendingly for a moment. Mr. Peppermint leaned forward, his gaze bright under the studio lights. 

“What the fuck?" 

“We’re not the police, Steve. We don’t have Miranda Rights or the ACLU or IA holding us back.” Very deliberately, Mr. Peppermint reached into his pocket and pulled something out, setting it on the table; a small Swiss Army knife. Carefully Mr. Peppermint opened it and unfolded the corkscrew from the collection of blades. He held it up and let the light glitter on the twisted curl of sharp metal. 

“So if I decided to start twisting this into say, your ear . . . or maybe your nose . . . or right into the slit on the head of your worthless dick, there wouldn’t be a damned thing you could _do_ about, Steve.” 

The man blanched, his eyes locked on the corkscrew. He swallowed hard. “You’re bluffing man . . ." came his uncertain voice. 

“I wouldn’t do your tongue until last,” Mr. Peppermint pointed out softly, “Because I want you to be able to talk. Scream, actually. I need to know the name of the person you’re so willing to take this incredible pain for, Steve. They must be paying you a lot. I hope they aren’t going to let you suffer in vain.” 

“You’re fuckin’ inSANE!” Steve moaned, his eyes wide. He glanced at Jaw Breaker and then over his shoulder at Sara. “You can’t let him do that _shit_ to me!” 

Sara forced herself to grin. 

Mr. Peppermint was slowly stroking the corkscrew with thumb. “We could start with a few practice twists under your fingernails. It will bleed a lot, but we’ve got plastic down.” 

“Fuuuuucccck!” Steve sucked in a terrified breath, “Who the fuck ARE you maniacs?” 

Sara held her breath as Mr. Peppermint gave a regretful little sigh. “Turn him around and get his hand on the table. We’ll do this the slow way.” 

“No, No!” Steve yelled. Sara grabbed his shoulder and spun him to face her. 

She bent down and gave him a pitying look. “At least you won’t see it going in under your fingernail. Will that make it hurt more, or less?” 

Steve struggled, and his words bounced around the room in sporadic blurts. “No! Don’t know the dude’s name! I swear, I just have a phone number, two oh two area code man! I get money transferred into my account and I DON’T KNOW THE DUDE!” 

“Number?” Mr. Peppermint asked patiently. Steve blubbered out the phone number and his account number at Mesa West Bank, then trailed off, his expression wary. Mr. Peppermint nodded, and picked up the Swiss army knife again, folding the corkscrew closed. 

He sighed. “So now comes the fun part, Steve. You’re going to be held for a few days while we see if your story checks out. If it does, then we can let you go, with a few qualifications. If it doesn’t . . . well, in that case there is a grieving family in Tejana, Mexico who require justice for the murder of their son Esteban.” 

“Fuck,” Steve moaned.

*** 

Later, much later, she found him stretched out on the bed in his room, arms behind his head, his gaze on the water spotted ceiling. He was in semi-darkness, and Sara paused in the doorway of their adjoining rooms, looking in on him. 

“Hey,” she murmured softly. 

“I’m unclean . . . you may be better off avoiding me,” came his soft, sad sigh. For a moment Sara hesitated, then she glided forward and came over to the bed. Gently she reached down and took his hand, tugging it. 

“Come with me," she whispered. 

Sara brought him into the bathroom and carefully undid his shirt, not ripping buttons this time. Drained and still, he let her, standing forlornly there, bare-chested. She held up a tube of lipstick. 

It was red; a luscious shade, a little darker than most. The shade of a cherry, rich and glossy. Very carefully Sara twisted and the peg of color rose up. She waved it to catch Mr. Peppermint’s bleak gaze. 

“You need an exorcism, “ she murmured. “A little purging for that melancholy, and I’m just the woman to do it.” 

“Exorcism?” Mr. Peppermint echoed, the faint beginnings of a smile at the corners of his mouth. She nodded. 

“Yes. You need kisses. You need proof of those kisses.” 

She slowly applied the lipstick, sweeping it over her mouth with casual expertise and the bloom of cherry on her mouth made Mr. Peppermint sigh. Sara coated her lips thoroughly and smiled as she set the tube down on the bathroom counter. 

“Come here," she smirked gently. Mr. Peppermint slid closer, but she ducked out from the embrace of his arms and stepped behind him, gesturing towards the mirror. She waited until he looked at their reflections there, and then slowly pulled her top off, and dropped it to the floor with his. 

His eyes widened, the pupils darkening. Sara stepped up behind him. “Look at us. I’m going to kiss you . . . everywhere. Put your hands on the mirror—" 

Mr. Peppermint did, and Sara leaned over his shoulder. Deliberately, she planted her mouth on the rise of his shoulder, and the lipstick left a mark like a wound. Under her mouth his skin was cool, and he shuddered at the heat of Sara’s lips. 

“Ohhh—" 

“Shhhhh," she soothed, and moved up the side of his neck. These kisses trailed up, the tracks of red in a glossy red prints to under his ear. Sara draped her chest against his back, the press of her breasts against his naked shoulder. Her hands slid around his waist to caress his chest, and she could feel the hard thud of his heart under her palms. 

Sara kept kissing, leaving her mark along his cheekbone, and at the corner of his mouth. Mr. Peppermint was tensing under her lips; in the mirror the reflection of the blots of red against his pale skin were shockingly sweet. He turned his head, striving to kiss her, but she laughed, a womanly, husky sound and shifted to the other side of him, dragging her mouth along his ribcage and leaving a streak of softer color there. 

She nipped, just under his armpit and he growled helplessly, pulling his hand from the wall and reaching for her, catching her in his arms and pinning Sara against the bathroom counter. Mr. Peppermint’s face was half-painted in red lipstick as he yanked her face to his and kissed her, hard. 

Sara surrendered, wrapping her arms around his neck and opening her mouth under his, savoring the hard plunder of his questing tongue. And then there were more kisses, smearing red along her cheeks and chin and in between the giggles and gasps and sighs of pleasure she felt Mr. Peppermint’s hands cupping her bare back. 

“I want to touch you," he harshly whispered. “No, I want to _taste_ you—" 

“Unhhhhhnnnnn," was all Sara could gurgle. The feel of his mouth along her throat had her quivering. Mr. Peppermint nipped under her chin, murmuring something and she nodded, eyes closed in bliss. 

Carefully he tugged at her jeans, pulling them down in quick urgent tugs, shucking them from her hips and knees to pool at her slender ankles. He pushed her back a little, onto the counter and stroked her thighs. Sara looked at him as he began to kneel. 

He should have looked ridiculous, smeared with lipstick, his hair tousled, but he didn’t. Instead, the gleam of desire in his half-closed eyes, and the way he possessively stroked her bare hips make her moan. Sara reached for his thick grey curls as he parted her thighs to him. 

Mr. Peppermint started his kisses along the insides of her knees and alternated them all the way up with excruciating slowness. Sara groaned again, and when his lips finally began to tease the downy softness between her thighs, she bit her lips, head lolling back against the cold tile. 

It couldn’t last, not with the tension that thrummed through her slender frame, not with the sweet slow licks and kisses driving her over the edge. Sara cried out, coming in tight delicious waves against Mr. Peppermint’s tongue, her fingers gripping his silver hair hard, and her joy echoed against the old tiles of the motel, fading into the stillness of the desert night.


	7. Chapter 7

Grissom woke to the ringing of his cell phone; muzzily he fished for it from the dresser, reaching over the warm body next to him.

 

He smiled; a very private, possessive little glance, and checked the time before he answered the phone. Nearly five in the morning. “Hello?”

 

“We have some new developments in your mission,” came Miss Lollipop’s elegant voice. “One of which requires, and I quote, ‘The like Whoa kick-ass Donovan Man, who isn’t gay even though Will doesn’t believe me,’ unquote.” Her tone held suppressed amusement, and for a moment, Grissom felt the fond exasperation in return.

 

“So it’s a message from Maynard Ryquist—I assume it’s important if you’re calling me at this hour." As he spoke, Grissom felt Miss Chocolate sleepily roll over and press her pert little bottom against his hip. He took a deep, calming breath.

 

It helped. Somewhat.

 

“Yes. Your star, William Shafter has recovered sufficiently, and wants to talk to the authorities.”

 

“Ah. Is he thinking of filing charges?”

 

“Possibly. Several people, myself included, feel this would be an imprudent decision at this time.”

 

“Understood,” Grissom murmured. “I’ll debrief him then, and secure some sort of agreement for testimony.” 

 

He felt the pert bottom shift against his hip; soothingly he patted it.

 

“Please do that as soon as possible, Mister Whoa kick-ass Donovan Man, who isn’t gay even though Will doesn’t believe me,” Miss Lollipop replied, a hint of a laugh in her lovely voice. 

 

Grissom smiled in the dark. “The perils of an exceptional performance, I assure you.”

 

“I’m well aware of you capacity for exceptional submersion into a role, Mr. Peppermint—it’s a diamond in your resume,” Miss Lollipop reminded him. “And when you see Miss Chocolate, please have her call in as well—she seems to be currently unreachable.”

 

Grissom’s hand argued the point, stroking softly along the sleek curve of his bed partner’s hip, but he cleared his throat dutifully. “Trouble?”

 

“Macy MacDonald is back in the United States, so we may have to terminate the mission early.”

 

Miss Lollipop hung up, and Grissom thoughtfully closed the cell phone, aware of facts: that the woman next to him was awake, and that the _last_ thing he really wanted to do was to get out of bed.

 

She seemed to sense his mood, and didn’t help matters by rolling over to wrap herself around him, clinging happily.

 

“You radiate a lot of heat,” Miss Chocolate murmured softly. 

 

“You’re the catalyst,” he replied with amusement. “And you’re trying to seduce me. We’ve talked about this, Frango; I thought we agreed that a seedy hotel in Lincoln County was no place to consummate our relationship.”

 

Miss Chocolate grumbled under her breath and loosened her hold on him. “Yeah, well we only decided THAT after we got to third base last night.”

 

Grissom smirked in the dark, unable to argue and regretting nothing. Miss Chocolate took his silence with a grin of her own.

 

“I can’t see you, but I bet you look smug,” she commented.

 

“I have a prerogative . . . unfortunately; I also have a job to do.”

 

One of Miss Chocolate’s hands slid down his bare stomach over the warm and expanded front of his boxers under the covers. “Those aren’t the only things you have.”

 

Grissom gave a little grumble of protest and lightly pulled her palm away. “Flattery is a devious method for getting your way.”

 

“Hey, it likes me—followed me home last night, let me give it a kiss," she teased.

Grissom grumbled again. “We had an agreement," he reminded her, his soft voice tinged with both regret and desire. Chastened, Miss Chocolate drew in a sigh. She shifted her hands up and stroked his cheeks, then lightly kissed his nose.

 

“I know, I know. I don’t mean to tease. What was the call about?”

 

Grissom told her as he climbed out of bed and dressed. She watched him as she sat up and turned on one of the bedside lamps. 

 

“So you’re going to lay it all out for William, so to speak. What will the Shop do?”

 

Grissom tugged on his jacket. “It depends what’s happened with the information given by Steve Steele. The Candy Shop has several contacts with law enforcement, and many of the anonymous tips that break big cases in Vegas come from us. Given the magnitude of this one, Miss Lollipop is probably going to hand it over to them after drafting up a proviso to protect Dan, Fran, and Tia Carumba from any liability or prosecution.”

 

Miss Chocolate’s eyes widened. “She can _do_ that?”

 

Grissom nodded. “Very effectively too. The economy of this entire town depends on the movie studio; whether anyone admits it aloud or not. Nothing anyone’s done here prior to this has been against the law, and chances are pretty good that the films in question were private productions—one shots, if you will.”

 

Miss Chocolate smirked, and rose up, her long lean torso dressed only in a cranberry thong and a simple silver chain around her hips. Seeing her, Grissom cleared his throat, trying to fight the wolfish impulse to sweep her back onto the unmade bed. She sauntered over to him and looked deeply into his eyes, proud and beautiful in her semi-nudity.

 

“So you’re going out to see Maynard and William,” she murmured. Grissom reached for her, pulling her up against him, palms sliding down her warm back.

 

“Mmmmmm," he murmured, his nose buried behind her ear, breathing in the warm scent of her hair.

Miss Chocolate laughed. “I think I feel a peppermint log."

 

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer," Grissom replied thickly even as his grip around her slender form tightened, “Although the unholy temptation to dip myself in chocolate is almost overwhelming," he kissed her throat, then lightly, her lips, and gently stepped back from her. 

 

Miss Chocolate blinked, as the twist of her mouth spoke volumes about her own desire and sense of duty. She lifted her head and crossed her hands over her chest in a self-effacing way, nodding.

 

“I’ll get dressed and call in; see what Miss Lollipop wants. What about Nick and Warrick?”

 

Grissom checked his watch. “Unless they hear from the Shop, I’d say the three of you keep going on the charade—there are plenty of things still to do to keep the cover going. I’ll call and let you know what happens.”

 

“Okay.” She looked at him again, and their gazes locked; tender and hungry, shy and happy.

 

“Be careful,” he told her.

 

She heard what that _really_ meant.

 

*** 

 

Miss Lollipop poured coffee. Across from her, Catherine buttered a slice of toast slowly, looking pale in the warm rays of the morning light. Out in the garden, a few hummingbirds darted around the feeder while soft strains of Pachabel’s Canon drifted around the gazebo.

 

“I feel so . . ." Catherine began, her voice low with discouragement.

Miss Lollipop nodded gently. “He wants you to feel helpless, Catherine. It’s a calculated and cruel move on the part of your father, and you have every emotional right to resent it.”

 

“Oh it’s more than resentment,” Catherine sighed. “Thanks for taking us at such short notice.”

 

“It’s all right. I think you, your mother and daughter need to take some time without the senator’s presence. You and your family are welcome to stay at the ranch in Montana as long as you’d like,” Miss Lollipop murmured.

 

Neither woman spoke for a while. After several long minutes, Catherine sighed once more. “Did you turn in that tape to the authorities?”

 

“They’re working on it even as we speak,” came the reassuring reply, “Although I need to ask if you’re prepared for . . . the consequences, should the investigation lead back to the senator.”

 

Catherine looked up, and instead of appearing alarmed, she looked grimly resigned. “I’m prepared. But I won’t have the media hound my daughter or my mother. Me, I can put up with the scrutiny, but not them.”

 

Miss Lollipop nodded, and sipped the coffee, making a tiny moue as she did so. The service this morning was Art Deco, in elegant crystal. Catherine tore bits of her toast free and let them drop on her plate absently as her hostess watched her, but after a while, she looked up.

 

“He’s still my father,” Catherine pointed out in a low voice.

 

“He’s quite possibly responsible for the death of one young man, and the attempted killings of two more, Catherine. Being your father does not change the facts.”

 

Catherine looked up and nodded. She paused, and then blinked a little; seeing it, Miss Lollipop leaned forward, her attention focused on her client.

 

“God . . . you don’t think . . . Eddie . . ." Catherine began as the horrible though dawned on her. Miss Lollipop paused delicately, and her hesitation was enough; Catherine drew in a sharp breath. “Oh Jesus!"

 

“We AREN’T going to jump to conclusions,” Miss Lollipop ordered firmly. “Your father didn’t approve of your marriage, but that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with your husband’s death, Catherine. Let’s deal with things one step at a time and not take on any more than we can handle right now.”

 

These sensible words worked, and Catherine Willows blinked. She looked down at her plate and picked up the mangled fragments of toast in her long fingers, then turned and tossed them to the birds on the garden lawn.

 

*** 

 

Sam Vartann shifted and opened one eye, looking at the warm sunlight straining through the heavy drapes of Portia Richmond’s guest room. He felt groggy but relatively pain-free, considering he’d re-injured his shoulder by carrying Portia to the ambulance outside the Mesa Mall doors. The EMTs had wanted him to set her down, but he’d refused until he’d gotten her to the vehicle.

 

Yesterday had been a hell of a day. Captain Miller had been all over the case, and between the emergency room visits, the police questioning all three of them and later, dodging the media who where following them, he, Portia and Reggie were exhausted. Portia had fought to be released from observation at the hospital, hiring a nurse to keep an eye on her at home.

 

Reggie volunteered to watch over him; a suggestion Sam endorsed enthusiastically when the drugs in his system lowered his inhibitions and he’d been put to bed.

 

He squeezed his eyes shut at that last memory, wondering exactly how much of an idiot he’d made of himself, and sat up.

 

Then he saw her in the big velour recliner. Reggie was asleep, stretched out in the chair, her generous chest rising and falling with every slow breath. Sam blinked, watching her for a moment, feeling the tickly blend of tenderness and desire well up within himself. Reggie’s hair was down again and the sunlight was making glints along the flame-colored curls. She wore slacks and some sort of scoop neck sweater, and he loved how utterly innocent she looked in sleep. 

 

Moving slowly—the sudden pain insured that—Sam swung his feet off the bed and rose up, tottering over to the recliner. Quietly, he bent down, a little off balance because of the sling along his right arm, and smiled down at her.

 

“Hey,"

 

Sweetly Reggie opened her eyes and focused on him. She smiled. The brilliance of that smile, deepening the dimple on her cheek and showing her white teeth dazzled Sam for a moment and he swayed a little; Reggie reached up to steady him, her warm palm against his tee shirt. “Hey yourself, Sam. You should stay in bed.”

 

“I know. Just needed a minute to check on my girls.”

 

At that, Reggie laughed softly. “Well, Portia’s upstairs with Ms. Rialto watching over her and taking her blood pressure every four hours. Delores and her sister are coming in about an hour to take care of the house and lunch, and I’m going to be working on household billing before I take Humph for a walk. Does that clear us all?”

 

“Captain Miller call back yet? When are they coming by the house?” Sam asked, partially mollified by Reggie’s agenda. She nodded.

 

“Yeah—she said to tell you, quote, you have a hell of a memory, but good call, Vartann, unquote. You remembered Rafe?”

 

“I remembered him,” Sam sighed. “But not soon enough. I hope the police pulled all the surveillance cams from the mall, so we’ve got some evidence of what he tried to do to Portia.”

 

Reggie nodded, reaching up to touch Sam’s chin. It was an easy gesture, absent-minded and sweet. Sam loved it. “Oh yes. And lots of witnesses too, including me. Portia’s filing assault charges and wants me to do it as well, but that’s minor.”

 

“Minor!” Sam was indignant, “Jesus, Reg, he damned near kills Portia and manhandles you—that is NOT minor!”

 

“Shhhhh---it’s minor because Captain Miller says the crime lab matched up some hairs and fibers from the restaurant shooting to Rafe. They have enough to think he’s the one who shot you, Sam.”

 

Stunned, Sam blinked, his thoughts moving through the sluggishness to try to get to speed. Reggie nodded and rose up, forcing him to move back. “Yeah, it’s sort of mind-boggling, but true. And I think you need to get back to bed.”

 

“Ummm, okay then . . ." he mumbled, backing up and sitting on the edge of the mattress. Reggie stood up and looked down at him, her hand stroking the side of his face. 

She bent down, her eyes twinkling. “You are my hero, Sam Vartann.”

 

He perked up, and impulsively cupped a hand to the back of Reggie’s soft hair, reeling her in for a kiss.

 

It was slightly awkward because of their positions but that didn’t matter, not with the sweet softness of mouth on mouth, the happy eager press of their lips. Sam reluctantly let her go a few moments later, feeling wonderfully dazed and grateful to whatever higher powers out there were rewarding him.

 

“I like that part,” he sighed. Reggie smirked and helped him back under the covers of the bed.

 

“The hero part?” she asked, softly.

 

“Nah, the yours part,” came his peaceful reply.

 

*** 

 

When Grissom reached William and Maynard at the Palm Desert Medical Building off Arroyo Avenue in Alamo he checked carefully to see if anyone else from the Candy Shop was there. Miss Lollipop usually sent an undercover or two for situations like this, and sure enough, Grissom spotted one of the newer recruits over by the vending machine in the lobby. 

 

It was Jujube, looking unhappy to be out of her laboratory, but blending in rather well in the hospital setting, mostly because of her lab coat. He moved next to her and fed a few quarters into the machine, speaking in a low voice.

 

“Thanks, I’ve got it from here.”

 

“Good—your man’s in room 11. I’ve got a fake batch of plastique to whip up, so have fun here. Oh, and Grenadine says hi,” Jujube murmured, accepting the bag of Corn Nuts from Grissom with a smirk. He shot her a questioning look and she sighed. “The dog’s moved into the labs pretty much—would it be rotten of me to admit I like him better than Gum Drop?”

 

Grissom paused a moment, considering this. “No, actually.”

 

Jujube beamed. “Thanks. I’m out of here," she gave a little wave and strode off. Grissom watched her go, shook his head a tiny bit and headed for room 11.

 

Both Maynard and William were there, playing cards, the sounds of the monitors a soft undertone to a conversation.

 

“If this was poker, you would be SO naked right now."

 

“You wouldn’t need poker for that. You’re just bragging because you’re winning, Will.”

 

“True," came William Shafter’s smirk. He looked up as Grissom walked in, and the cheer of the moment faded. Maynard glanced over and nodded, a hint of relief in his tired eyes.

 

Grissom felt slightly guilty. He moved to the side of William’s bed and looked at him carefully. “How are you?”

 

“A hell of a lot better than I was yesterday,” came the guarded reply. “The doctors say I’ve got some chloroform in my system, and some rope burns around my wrists, but other than that I’m okay. Same for that other guy. What the hell is going on?”

 

“We need to talk,” Grissom soothed him, but William scowled and pushed the cards so hard they spilled over the table edge and onto the blanket.

 

“Maynard told me to wait, but I’m not buying it, Donovan. This wasn’t . . .” he struggled to put it into easier words; Maynard came around the other side of the bed and dropped a warm heavy hand on his shoulder. Absently William leaned a little towards him.

 

"It wasn’t what you signed up for, I know. Believe me, none of us had any idea you were going to be abducted, William. We were at Tia Carumba looking around to see what we could find, and the movie was our cover. I don’t know how much Maynard has told you, but it’s a long story, so let me explain as much of this as I can.”

 

Grissom took care to lay out the story of the snuff films and the Candy Shop’s involvement, stressing the need for confidentiality. When he mentioned the confirmation of the first film, William blanched.

 

“Crap—it was real?”

 

“Yes. They’d nabbed an undocumented alien thinking that no one would report him missing. However, Esteban Altomira had parents who were looking for him and knew he was supposed to be here, in Alamo. When the buyer wanted a second tape with TWO deaths, the filmmakers got greedy and figured they’d press their luck a second time, and you fit the bill.”

 

“Yeah?” William asked in a guarded tone. Grissom nodded solemnly.

 

“Yes. You’re young and handsome, with no fixed address. The percentage of people coming to Tia Carumba that fit that description is huge, and Steve was counting on that. He was also convinced that even if you did get reported missing that nobody would be searching the studio for you.”

 

“But I got worried,” Maynard confessed shyly. William looked up at the big Viking and a sweet smile flickered between them.

 

“Lucky me—and I mean that. Okay, so what happens to the rat bastards now, Donovan—or whatever your real name is.”

 

“Steve is in custody, along with his partner. The authorities want to know all about the buyer, and at the moment they’re interrogating both men to see how far this case goes. Neither one is going to escape justice, William, I can promise you that.”

 

“They’re going to jail? Will I have to testify?” came the worried question.

Grissom shook his head. “I don’t think so. The Candy Shop has an intricate and complex relationship with law enforcement here in Nevada, but in this case there’s enough evidence linking Steve and the other man to the crimes that I don’t think they’ll need anything else.”

 

William sighed and brushed a few curls out of his eyes. “Okay then. But . . . what about the movie? That was all fake?”

 

Grissom paused, looking from Maynard to William. “It was . . . in the beginning. But you’ll both be paid for the time you’ve put in, and I know both Dan and Fran would like to have you on the cast list for any new films being done.”

 

A deep sigh escaped William, and Maynard’s hand tightened slightly on his thin shoulder in comfort.

 

“You’re alive, Will—that’s always the important thing, you know?” Maynard rumbled.

 

Grissom cleared his throat and nodded in agreement.

 

*** 

 

“The final frontierrrrrrr isn’t spaaaaaace," Bone McBoy sang out, his deep baritone loud and true, “It’s here in my heattttrt, that’s your pllaaaaaaaceee---“

 

Chiming in, Mr. Cock picked up the lyric, “Along with my drrrreams, I long for your reeeeeams, my lust flares up in my faaaaaaceeee—"

 

The song rolled on, and Sara fought to keep from laughing aloud. On the huge bed, both actors were singing their hearts out, naked and sweaty from their love scene but grinning. In the background, two security guards dressed only in tiny red thongs stood guard. 

 

Nick groaned under his breath. “Sweet Jesus, I hope nobody I know ever _sees_ this film.”

 

Next to him, Warrick scowled in agreement. “We’re making a pact right now, Nick—what happens in Tia Carumba . . . you know what I’m sayin?”

 

“Completely, man.”

 

“Not a word.”

 

“To the grave, Warrick,” came the hiss of agreement.

 

For a moment, the two of them continued to stand there, waiting for the duet to end. Nick winced as another thought occurred to him. “What about Sara?”

 

“She won’t talk,” Warrick replied, but his tone was uncertain.

Nick gave a low whimper. “Crap—I know that if _I_ had the goods on two buddies of mine being forced to stand around in banana hammocks while seriously alien encounters were going on not four feet in front of them . . ."

 

“Yo Nick, shut up.”

 

“I’m just sayin—at least it’s not Greg. We’d NEVER hear the end of it if it was."

 

The song had ended, and a bright flash flared out; startled, both Warrick and Nick looked over to where Sara held out a camera phone, her grin wide.

 

“So, gentlemen,” she purred as Mr. Cock and Bone McBoy left the set. “Negotiations begin at two sick days and coffee brought to me every day for the next week . . ." 

 

End.

 

_Candy Shop: Resurrection Gardens is coming soon!_


End file.
